Ron Base - Tree Callister 02 - The Sanibel Sunset Detective Returns

by Ron Base

  She removed her sunglasses. The gesture solved few mysteries. Those opaque eyes remained unreadable as she inspected him.

  “It’s been a while, Mr. Callister. How have you been? Are you fully recovered?”

  “From my gunshot wound or my last encounter with you?”

  She gave him a tight smile and looked around. “Have you been here before?”

  “Not for years,” he said.

  “Why don’t we go over to the Ford house?” she said. “See how the other half lived.”

  He followed her off the porch. Tourists glanced at her appreciatively. She was out of place among the shorts and the baseball caps and the digital cameras. It was as though she had made a wrong turn on New York’s Fifth Avenue and somehow ended up at the Edison Ford Museum.

  “So what are you thinking?” As if she knew exactly what he was thinking. He wasn’t about to give her that, though, so he fibbed:

  “I’m thinking that with all the money these two geezers had, they didn’t spend it here. I suppose they used these houses to convince themselves they were just like anyone else.”

  “You don’t like the rich, do you, Mr. Callister?”

  “Only rich people like the rich. The rest of us come to peer in their windows and wonder why they spent so much money, or in the case of Edison and Ford, to speculate why they didn’t spend more.”

  “I’ve decided I don’t like the rich, either,” she said. “I don’t like the way they treat you when you are no longer one of them.”

  “You’re no longer rich, Mrs. Traven?”

  She smiled broadly. “I’m just a poor working writer, doing what’s necessary to survive.”

  “And what is necessary to survive?”

  “Doing things one never imagines oneself doing. Well, you know all about that, don’t you, Mr. Callister?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I suppose I do.”

  “Which is why I called you.”

  “Don’t tell me you want to hire me.”

  “Why is that so surprising?”

  “The last time, you employed me to do one thing but in fact you wanted something else entirely.”

  “Which is to say, what?”

  “I don’t trust you? Could that be it?”

  To demonstrate her honesty, Elizabeth removed her sunglasses a second time. “I suppose I can hardly blame you, can I?”

  She kept her gaze trained on him. Those eyes could bore right through him still—and shine with the sincerity of Henry Ford’s denials of anti-Semitism.

  “It’s my husband,” she said. “You know he’s out of jail?”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “It’s not an easy time for us, as you can imagine,” she continued. “But with Brand’s release, the charge against him thrown out, the two of us together again, I thought things might be different.”

  “But they aren’t?”

  “The marriage was under considerable strain before the trouble started. I held on, though, stuck it out with him so he didn’t have to go through this alone. Even when I had reservations about what it would take to get his niece a liver, I went along. As you know it almost finished me, and you, too, for that matter. But again, I stayed with him, went along with what he wanted.”

  She replaced the sunglasses, as though she’d had enough honesty for one day.

  “I’m no longer willing to put up with his lies and deceit.”

  “What does that mean, Mrs. Traven?”

  “What do a man’s lies and deceit usually mean?”

  “He’s having an affair?”

  “I believe that to be the case,” she said formally, as though rehearsing the eventual deposition in the matter.

  Tree didn’t bother to hide his surprise. “Has he been out of prison long enough?”

  “How much time do you think men need? My experience is they don’t need much time at all. The point is I want you to find out what he’s up to.”

  “You want me to follow Brand Traven?”

  “I want you to do whatever is necessary.”

  “What does he say about this affair?”

  “He says nothing. I don’t ask him.”

  “Don’t you think you should try talking to him first?”

  “Two hundred dollars a day, is that what you still charge?”

  “I haven’t said I’ll take the case,” Tree said.

  Elizabeth Traven gave a brittle laugh. “You’ll take it, Mr. Callister.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because even after being chased around and shot, and shooting someone yourself, no one takes you any more seriously than they did before. No one wants to hire you. You’ll do what I want, all right. You’ll do it.”

  They had stopped near one of the towering orchid-filled mango trees in Mina Edison’s opulent gardens. Tree was determined to tell Elizabeth that he could not be bought, that people did take him seriously. He had plenty of clients. Clients coming out of his ears.

  He was going to tell her all those things.

  She withdrew a thick envelope from her purse and handed it to him. “There’s enough in there to keep you going for a couple of weeks.”

  “I wonder, Mrs. Traven, if the day will come when middle-aged tourists will look at where you lived on Captiva Drive and speculate as to what you were really like. I wonder what they will say. What they will think.”

  “You keep wondering, Mr. Callister. Meanwhile, I’ll get on with things. Because that’s what one does. One does not whine or cry. One does what’s necessary. One gets on.”

  She pushed the envelope into his hands. “I want daily reports. I presume you can get started immediately.”

  He held the envelope as though it was a great weight. But he did not give it back. Apparently satisfied, Elizabeth wheeled and started away, the click of high heels marking her progress along the walkway. He stood with the envelope full of money in his hand, watching as she disappeared among streams of tourists.

  And then he saw something else.

  A figure darted through the crowd. The same scrawny frame. The same two-day growth of beard.

  Slippery Street.

  He wore shorts, a gray T-shirt and a baseball cap pulled down over his eyes. He wasn’t pointing a gun at Tree. But it had to be Slippery.

  Tree brushed past baby boomers inspecting the lives of the rich and the dead. He thought he spotted Slippery by the Edison pool house and ran toward it. He stopped to catch his breath. Someone said, “Edison built the pool in 1910. It was one of the first swimming pools in Florida.”

  There was no sign of Slippery.

  6

  Two identical Dodge Durangos were parked in the drive beside their tiny house on Andy Rosse Lane so that Tree had to park the Beetle on the street.

  Tree got out and inspected the vehicles. One Dodge was black, the other was red. Tourists tended to park anywhere they could find an empty space, even if it was someone’s private driveway. One of the hazards of living on Captiva: there was not a whole lot of parking in paradise.

  Tree went inside. Freddie was sitting in the living room with his son Chris and Chris’s wife, Kendra. Kendra was a model from Missouri who had been chosen Playmate of the Month for the March 2007 issue of Playboy magazine.

  Chris and Kendra had met when he was assistant manager at Chicago’s legendary Smith and Woolinsky Steak House. They married in 2009 and then started up an online dating service. Tree didn’t know what to make of his son being married to someone whom hundreds of thousands of readers had seen naked. He also didn’t know what to make of a son leaving the restaurant industry where he had been very successful for what seemed the much more nebulous business of online dating.

  Tree said, “This is a surprise.”

  Chris’s smile was frozen in place. “Here we are, Dad.” Chris stood and awkwardly embraced his father.

  He was tall and slim, a younger version of his mother, Judy. She had been the first of too many Tree Callister marriages; the dutiful young housewife who o
nly wanted a family and a partner who came home at night. Tree in those days was not that man. The marriage had failed miserably. His fault; all of it.

  None of his three children resembled him. Just as well. Was this a message? You’re a lousy parent. This is your punishment: none of your kids will look like you.

  Chris did have one thing in common with his father: eyeglasses. They gave him a vaguely professorial air; an air totally misplaced since Christopher had scant interest in anything intellectual. His hair was light brown and close-cropped—the style of young people these days, Tree mused. His parents would have been delighted. Growing up in the sixties this was the style they demanded of their kids’ hair. Naturally, the kids wanted it long, much to the older generation’s unending horror. Now the children of the long-haired kids favored short hair.

  The gods must be laughing.

  Chris let go of his father. That uneasy smile was still pasted to his face like something he couldn’t shake off. Tree coughed and adjusted his glasses. Kendra rose languidly. Kendra did everything languidly, Tree noted. She was small and blond with a button nose you could not pay for and dazzling blue eyes to die for. The Playmate in flower.

  She embraced Tree, and that did not seem nearly so awkward. “Papa Tree,” she said. When had she decided to call him that? He couldn’t remember. It was sweet and endearing—and totally irritating. Papa Tree? It was not so long ago that he dated women who looked like Kendra. Well, okay, maybe it was a while ago.

  He managed a grin and said, “How was the drive?”

  “Long and boring,” Kendra said, flopping back down on the sofa and stretching tanned legs.

  “Maybe you should have driven down together,” Tree said.

  “Then I’d have to listen to your son playing that rap crap.”

  Tree looked at Christopher. “You like rap?”

  He said, a tad defensively, “What’s wrong with rap?”

  “I like Papa Tree music,” Kendra said, throwing Tree a smile. How did Kendra get her teeth so white? He felt his face redden. What was that all about?

  “What’s Papa Tree music?”

  “The Beatles,” Chris said.

  “Some Beach Boys, too,” Kendra said. “Maybe a little Procol Harum.”

  Tree didn’t like Procol Harum but decided not to say anything.

  “Is anyone hungry?” Freddie said. “It’s late but I can throw something together.”

  “That would be great, Freddie,” Chris said. “I keep telling Kendra you’re the best cook in Florida.”

  “That’s because I am most definitely not the best cook in Chicago,” Kendra said.

  Tree could not imagine Kendra at a stove.

  “Has anyone offered drinks?” Tree said.

  “I was just about to do that,” Freddie said. “How about some wine?”

  “You don’t have anything stronger, Dad? Scotch?”

  “You drink scotch?”

  “Kendra likes to have a glass, too.” As if Kendra’s fondness for scotch explained everything.

  “I can go to the corner and get a bottle,” Tree said.

  “I’ll go with you,” Chris said.

  “I’ll get dinner started,” Freddie said. She looked at Kendra. “What about it, Kendra? Do you feel like giving me a hand?”

  “Sure.” Kendra sounded unenthusiastic.

  They walked over to the Island Store. The tourists were gone for the night. A layer of humidity had settled, bringing a stillness that had the effect of drawing Tree closer to his son. At least he thought it did. Chris raised his arms above his head, taking deep breaths, as if to shake off the tension he was feeling. “Nice to be here,” he said.

  “Good to have you—even if it is unexpected.”

  “Chris and Kendra, always up for a little of the unexpected.”

  “Everything okay?”

  “Sure thing there, Papa Tree,” Chris said with a smirk. “How’s the private detective business?”

  “Quiet,” Tree said. He thought of Ferne Clowers and Slippery Street and the gun that misfired. Well, maybe not so quiet. But his son didn’t need to know that, at least not now.

  “So you’re still doing that?”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “You know, after what happened.”

  “What happened?”

  “You getting shot and everything. That didn’t put you off?”

  “Hey, what’s getting shot every once in a while,” Tree said.

  “My father, man of action,” Chris said. He did not sound impressed.

  Chris didn’t know the half of it. Tree said, “Not that much action.”

  Chris chuckled. “More than I would have imagined.”

  They reached the Island Store and went inside. Chris picked up two bottles of single malt scotch. He paid and they went outside again and started back for the house. Chris became tenser. He took another deep breath.

  “Listen, Dad,” he said. “We may be staying for a while.”

  “Okay,” Tree said.

  “We just had to get away from Chicago, that’s all. Clear the air a bit.”

  “What about your online dating business?”

  “That’s on hold for the time being.”

  “You’re sure everything is all right?”

  “No, it’s not, frankly.” Chris stopped and looked at his father. “We’ve run into a bit of a rough patch lately. We need a place where we can just hang out so we can have a little peace and quiet and figure our next move.”

  “Anything I can do to help?”

  “In your role as father or private detective?” Edged with sarcasm.

  Tree ignored it. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you like. Do you need money?”

  Chris grinned. “That would be the role of the father. Thanks, but all we need right now is some hospitality.”

  “You’ve always got that, Chris.”

  “What about Freddie?”

  “What about her?”

  “Will she be all right with this?”

  “She’ll be fine,” Tree said. “Is everything all right between you and Kendra?”

  Chris ducked the question by saying, “Also, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything about the two of us being here.”

  “Okay,” Tree said, not sure how he was going to keep that quiet in the small world that constituted life on the island.

  “You know, it’s no one’s business what we’re up to, and right now we just want to keep a low profile.”

  “Sure,” Tree said.

  That night Chris drank too much scotch. He played with the chicken Freddie had prepared without eating it. Kendra had a couple of glasses of white wine, and kept her wits about her. If she was worried, it didn’t show. At ten o’clock she hauled Chris off to bed. Tree and Freddie retreated to the kitchen to clean up. Tree told her about his conversation with Chris.

  “So what do you make of that?” she asked him.

  “I don’t know, but I suspect their business is in trouble. I’ll find out more. In the meantime, though, we have house guests for the next little while. Are you okay with that?”

  “She has a tramp stamp, you know.”

  “A tramp stamp? What’s that?”

  “A tattoo on her lower back. In her case, it’s a blood-red rose. You’ve seen it.”

  “I have not,” Tree protested. “What’s more, I’ve never heard of a tramp stamp. And you didn’t answer my question.”

  “I’m fine,” Freddie said. “I must say you do a masterful job of at least trying to keep your eyes off her.”

  “You think I can’t keep my eyes off Kendra?”

  “I doubt the man exists who can. That’s her blessing and her curse, isn’t it?”

  “Is it?”

  “The great thing is, everyone wants her. The awful thing is, everyone wants her. Creates a lot of tension and confusion, I suspect.”

  “I don’t want her,” Tree said.

  “I know you wouldn’t actually sleep with her
or anything,” Freddie said. “But she is the stuff of male fantasy. It won’t last much longer, but it is there right now, and boy, it’s something to behold.”

  “I’m not sure what you’re getting at,” Tree said.

  “I just wonder if that doesn’t cause trouble for them, that’s all. They seem somewhat distant for a newly married couple, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe it’s because they’re around the parents—or maybe it’s because of this business trouble. Never mind Kendra’s looks, nothing’s tougher on a marriage than money problems.”

  “Spoken from experience.”

  “Very much from experience, yes.”

  She moved closer. “Money certainly doesn’t interfere with us.”

  “You’re right. You’ve got it. I don’t. It’s very simple.”

  She was in his arms. “There are other attractions.”

  “Which is why I might demonstrate one of those attractions right now.”

  “You think that’s an attraction?”

  “Why don’t we find out?”

  “With the kids in the other room?”

  “They’re not kids, they’re adults,” Tree said. “We’ll be quiet. I’ll grit my teeth.”

  He kissed her.

  7

  The next morning Tree parked the Beetle on the ocean side of Captiva Drive, choosing a spot that provided a good view of the front gates at the Traven mansion.

  The last time he had been to the house, he had driven straight through those gates and walked up the steep staircase to the front entrance. Jorge, the Travens’ majordomo, had poured him coffee. Now here he was huddled incongruously on a roadside, trying not to be noticed.

  And waiting.

  In the days after Brand Traven’s surprise release from prison, reporters and cameramen had camped outside, creating worse traffic jams than usual along Captiva. But the former media mogul had known exactly how to thwart the press dogs who once served him: he simply refused to show his face, starving the gluttony of the twenty-four hour news machine. The machine could not function without movement. The reporters soon departed in search of easier prey. This morning, no cameramen lingered out front. No TV trucks were parked along the beach side of the road. There were no gawking tourists with digital cameras, no police grimly rerouting traffic.