The Hound of the Sanibel Sunset Detective (2 page)

“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

A
s 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.”

“A what?”

“A favor. A favor to Edith. At least that’s what I’m telling myself.”

“When do you think you’ll be home?”

“As soon as I can.”

“I’m losing you,” Freddie said.

“I’ll be back in time for dinner. How’s that?”

“What?”

“Dinner. I will make it home for dinner.” Enunciating each word carefully, as if that would somehow make a bad connection better.

“Please, please be careful,” Freddie said.

“As I may have mentioned before, Careful is my middle name.”

“No, Tree, it isn’t,” Freddie said.

_________

By the time Tree saw the imposing facade of the Biltmore—its distinctive minaret-style bell tower once made the hotel the tallest building in Florida—he had to go to the bathroom. Badly. The shortcomings of age; you could never be too far from a toilet.

Rather than hold on until he got to Vic Trinchera’s place, he veered onto the drive leading to the Biltmore’s front entrance. A sandy-haired eager-beaver wearing a dove-gray suit opened the driver’s door for him, announcing, “Welcome to the Biltmore, sir. My name is Justin. I’m at your service. How are you, today?”

“I’m okay,” Tree said, grimacing as he eased himself out, hip aching, sciatic nerve throbbing—more disillusioning signs of age.

“Well, sir, we’re delighted to have you with us,” Justin said with grave sincerity. “Did you know, sir, that the Biltmore was built in 1926?”

“I’m only going to be a few minutes,” Tree said. “Is that okay?”

“That’s fine, sir. I’m not certain you’re aware of this, but Johnny Weismuller, the world-famous Tarzan of the movies, used to be a swimming instructor here.”

“I didn’t know that,” Tree said.

“This was before he became Tarzan, of course. Did you know the pool where he taught is still here? It used to be the world’s largest swimming pool.”

“It isn’t any more?” Tree said.

This momentarily confounded Justin. “Why, I’m not sure, sir. I guess someone built a larger pool somewhere. Are you checking in with us today?”

“I’m looking for the restroom,” Tree said, loins aching.

“Directly through the lobby to your left, sir. Just let me know when you want the car, and I’ll bring it around for you.”

Finally shaking off Justin, Tree hobbled into the hotel. Despite the urgency of his mission, Tree could not help but pause before the stately magnificence of the Biltmore lobby: the moist lusciousness of the plants and ferns, the massive leather arm chairs, the vault ceilings supported by a straight line of thick marble columns, the sunlight streaming in through French doors lining the far wall that could not quite dispel musty pomp and circumstance.

He loved these great old Florida hotels—this one, the Breakers in Palm Beach, the Casa Marina in Key West—great dinosaurs from a bygone era of stately luxury that somehow survived, mostly intact, into the twenty-first century. Tree recalled reading tales of ghosts at the Biltmore. He could imagine they lingered in the dark corners of the lobby, perhaps waiting for Johnny Weismuller, Tarzan himself, to give them swimming lessons in what once had been the world’s largest swimming pool.

But Johnny wasn’t about to show up today, and Tree Callister really did have to get to the bathroom. He found the men’s room off the lobby, went through the swinging door into its discreetly lit, marbled interior and pushed open one of the cubicles. He stood over the toilet, wondering about a life culminating in a ceaseless search, not for meaning, but for an available bathroom.

Outside his cubicle, the bathroom door opened and someone stepped across the floor.

“No, I’m still at the Biltmore.” The voice sounded raspy and hollow, echoing in the marble interior. “We’re having something to eat. We were starving, that’s why. We’re going over there a little later. No hurry. It’s not like he’s into hitting the South Beach clubs at night. Most days, Vic don’t even leave the house.” There was a pause, and then, “Yeah, yeah, Johnny. Not to worry. We’ll take care of it. It’s done. You want the egg broken, we break the egg. That’s what I do, that’s my business, okay? I don’t need advice on how to do my business.”