by Ron Base
Table of Contents
Also by Ron Base
Copyright © 2013 Ron Base
For the real Joshua and Madison.
A Note to the Reader
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
Acknowledgments
Coming Soon
The Two
Sanibel
Sunset
Detectives
a novel by
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
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 Nausbaum)
www.ronbase.com
Read Ron’s blog at
www.ronbase.wordpress.com
Contact Ron at
[email protected]
Copyright © 2013 Ron Base
All rights reserved. No part of this work covered by the copyright hereon may be reproduced or used in any form by any means—graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or information storage and retrieval system—without the prior written permission of the publisher, or in the case of photocopying 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 Two Sanibel Sunset Detectives / Ron Base.ISBN 978-0-9736955-7-1 (pbk.) I. Title.
PS8553.A784T86 2013 C813’.54 C2013-907231-4
West-End Books
80 Front St. East, Suite 605
Toronto, Ontario
Canada M5E 1T4
Cover design: Brian Frommer
Text design: Ric Base
Electronic formatting: Ric Base
Sanibel Island map: Anna Kornuta
First Edition
For the real Joshua and Madison.
Thanks for lending your names to the story.
And also for Nathan and Cohen.
Four wondrous grandchildren who
complete my life.
A Note to the Reader
Of course there are these unique islands called Sanibel and Captiva. And Fort Myers is in fact right across the causeway. And yes, the Sanibel-Captiva Chamber of Commerce Visitors Center exists, as do any number of the other places named in the novel. But there is no Dayton’s on Sanibel, and there is no Traven mansion, either. Please keep in mind this is a work of fiction, and none of the situations or characters described in the story exist. Well, okay, there really was an Elvis Presley—although sometimes you do wonder.
1
Elvis was singing “Follow That Dream,” Tree Callister backing the King on rhythm guitar, when the Sanibel Island police pulled him over.
Tree could not think why he kept imagining himself playing the guitar with Elvis seeing as how he had no idea how to play the guitar. He also had no idea why the police would stop him since his battered old Volkswagen Beetle convertible was only going about twenty-five miles per hour along Periwinkle Way.
Elvis finished singing and Tree’s guitar playing faded. He forced himself back to reality, watching in the Beetle’s rear view mirror as the officer left his vehicle. For a moment, the officer disappeared from sight, but then he loomed at the driver’s side.
“Morning,” the police officer said. His head was shaved and he seemed to burst from his uniform, as if his muscles and his girth were too much to be contained by mere clothing. He wore wrap-around sunglasses that gave him a certain distanced, mechanical quality. It was as though Tree had been stopped by Robocop.
“What’s the problem, officer?” Tree asked, a question repeated by suspected miscreants like himself across America this morning.
“Show me your license and registration please,” the officer said.
Tree fumbled in his wallet while the officer tilted his head away, as if his attention had been caught by something much more important.
It had been so long since anyone had asked him for his driver’s license, Tree had trouble finding it, and when he did, it refused to come out of the plastic holder in his wallet. “The damn thing’s stuck,” Tree said.
“Take your time, sir,” the officer said, keeping his gaze averted.
Tree finally pried the license loose and handed it along with the registration—which he found at the bottom of the glove compartment—to the officer. That caused the officer to shift his gaze and idly inspect the paperwork in his hand. “You’re Walter Tremain Callister?”
Tree didn’t like to be called Walter. He gritted his teeth. “Yes.”
“Hold on a minute, Walter,” the officer said, and without waiting for a reply disappeared from view. Tree craned around and watched him saunter back to his cruiser, hips rolling. On the radio Stevie Wonder sang “You Are the Sunshine of My life.” No sunshine so far this morning. He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. The officer reappeared at the driver’s side. “Walter, step out of the car, please.”
“What?” Tree jerked in surprise.
“Step out of the car, please.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. What’s wrong?”
“Walter,” the officer said, “don’t make me ask you again. Step out of the vehicle.”
Tree opened the door and eased himself stiffly from the Beetle. He was taller than the Robocop Sanibel police officer. But not by much. As Tree faced him, the officer took a step back in case Tree tried to go for the gun he must have suspected was hidden in his cargo shorts.
“What I need you to do, Walter, I need you to move back to the cruiser.”
Tree forced himself to tamp down his rising anger. “What’s wrong?” he said. “I have a right to know why you’re doing this.”
“I’m asking you to move back to the cruiser, Walter,” the cop said. “I need you to co-operate.”
Tree went back to the cruiser, the officer following, keeping his distance. “Now, Walter, I want you to turn around and face the cruiser, and spread your hands on the hood.”
“You’re kidding,” Tree said.
The officer did not smile when he said, “Yeah kidding, Walter. I joke around like this every morning. So humor me and spread your hands on the hood.”
Tree sighed and did as he was told, bending over, spreading his legs, and placing his hands against the warm metal of the cruiser. From behind him, he heard the officer say, “Are you c
arrying a weapon, Walter?”
“My name’s not Walter,” Tree said.
“Are you carrying a weapon, Walter?”
“No,” Tree said.
“Okay, Walter, I’m going to pat you down.”
Tree felt the officer’s hands on his shoulders, big meaty paws moving down his body, whacking away at his rib cage, pulling at his T-shirt, ensuring there was no gun shoved into the waistband of his shorts. When he finished, the officer said, “Okay, you can straighten up now, Walter.
Tree removed his hands from the car, and turned toward the officer who once again had backed off a few paces. On Periwinkle, traffic was slowing so that the tourists could get a better look at the spectacle.
“What’s this all about?” Tree said.
“Don’t move, Walter,” the officer replied.
Presently, a brown Buick approached and turned onto the road shoulder, parking a few feet behind the cruiser. The driver’s door opened, and a handsome young man stepped out. The sun glistened against Detective Owen Markfield’s smooth, tanned skin. It glinted off the shiny perfection of his blond-streaked hair, artfully combed back from a high, wrinkle-free forehead. Markfield, in a blue-striped Tommy Bahama shirt, wearing Margarita loafers, was camera-ready for the Sanibel Island Detective TV series he already appeared to be starring in. But then Tree got a look at the smile on Markfield’s face, and he knew the detective could never be the hero of any TV series. With that smile, Owen Markfield could only be the villain.
“Tree Callister,” Markfield said in a voice edged with a sneer.
“I should have known you were behind this,” Tree said.
“You’ve met Officer T. J. Hanks,” Markfield said.
“We were just getting to know each other,” Tree said.
“T.J. is one of Sanibel Island’s most talented and dedicated policemen. He may also be the toughest mother in South Florida. I’ve been filling in Officer Hanks, telling him about your background, the fact that you are a suspected killer and a thief who has stolen—what? Nine million dollars?”
Tree addressed Officer Hanks. “Detective Markfield has an exaggerated view of me. I don’t kill people and I don’t have nine million dollars.”
Officer Hanks gave him a blank stare.
Markfield stepped so close, Tree could smell the expensive after shave recently applied to that smooth, tanned jaw. His eyes had gone dead. And he barely moved his lips when he said, “You are a lying son of a bitch. If you didn’t kill the woman I loved, you were certainly responsible for her death, and then you stole that money, and now I am bound and determined you are going to pay for it.”
Officer Hanks added, “I don’t like killers and I don’t like thieves.”
“There you go, Tree,” Markfield said, regaining his smile as he moved away. “Officer Hanks doesn’t like killers and thieves. That’s why Officer Hanks is going to help me bring you down.”
“I wouldn’t have thought you needed any help,” Tree managed to say.
Markfield just grinned his TV villain-of-the-week grin. “I thought the two of you should meet, so you could have some idea of what you’re up against.”
“I’m shaking in my boots.” Tree tried to make it sound as though he was being sarcastic. In fact, he was shaking in his boots.
Markfield’s grin only widened. “You know what, Tree? I think you are.”
2
I was in G.I. Blues with Elvis,” Rex Baxter was saying.
Dapper this morning in a loose-fitting crimson shirt and white linen pants, tanned and fit having lately shed twenty pounds, Rex leaned against the edge of the stage at the Big Arts Center talking to a handsome blond-haired man who appeared to hang on Rex’s every word. Exactly what Rex liked.
“Isn’t that something?” said the blond-haired man with Rex. “Elvis, huh? You were actually in a movie with Elvis?”
“I played the role of Captain Hobart,” Rex said.
“It’s been so long since I’ve seen the movie,” said the blond-haired man. “What was he like? Elvis, I mean.”
Tree had heard the story before. Tree had heard all Rex’s stories as they had been friends since their Chicago days when Tree was a young Sun-Times reporter, and Rex hosted an afternoon TV show. This was after Rex spent years in Hollywood doing bit parts in movies, although, if you listened to Rex, there were no bit parts, at least not that he played. The beloved president of the Sanibel-Captiva Chamber of Commerce was very much the star of his own life.
“Elvis had just been released from the army, a nice, courteous kid, a real gentleman,” Rex said, ignoring Tree’s presence. “But he had about as much interest in acting as I have in flying to the moon. He and those guys he hung with—the Memphis Mafia as they were known—all they wanted to do was horse around in golf carts. Elvis was a whole lot more interested in Juliet Prowse, his co-star. She was engaged to Sinatra at the time, although I think she was up to a few things with Elvis.”
“Juliet Prowse,” the blond-haired man said. “Don’t remember her.”
“A dancer,” Rex said. “She never amounted to much in the movies. But at least she concentrated when she was doing a scene.”
“And Elvis didn’t?”
“Something happened to him when he got in front of a camera. It was as if he wasn’t there. He just shot through his lines, reciting them, skating along the surface.”
“Those movies were pretty lousy,” the blond-haired man said.
“But they were very popular,” Rex said. “G.I. Blues was a big hit. Everyone loved Elvis back then, and, of course, he had that voice.”
“Elvis,” the blond-haired man said. “That’s just so fascinating, Rex.”
Rex beamed—until he noticed Tree and said, “It’s a good thing you’re just one of the acceptors this year. Otherwise I would be prepared to wring your neck for showing up so late.”
“Sorry, Rex. I was unavoidably delayed.”
“Our annual Academy Awards satire show is becoming a tradition here on Sanibel,” Rex admonished. A tradition that dated back all of three years, but who was counting?
“The show only works because we all come together to make it work—and that means being on time for rehearsals.”
“I understand,” Tree said.
“Do you know what you’re going to do on Oscar night?”
“Don’t worry about a thing, Rex, I’m going to knock them dead,” Tree promised. “You’ll see. I’ve got quite a little presentation prepared.”
“We’ve only got one more rehearsal, so you better come through,” Rex said. He indicated the blond-haired man standing nearby. “I want you to meet the guy who’s going to be presenting the Oscar to you. Tree Callister, Ryde Bodie.”
Ryde was nearly as tall as Rex, athletic with startling blue eyes that complemented the blast furnace smile he delivered as the two men shook hands.
“Great to meet you,” he said.
“Ryde?” Tree said.
“Short for Ryder,” Ryde Bodie said. “What about you? What’s Tree short for?”
“Tremain. But that was too much for anyone when I was a kid, so I got saddled with Tree.”
Rex said, “Like I told you, Tree is Sanibel Island’s only private detective.”
Ryde Bodie looked at Tree in a different way. “You’re a private detective?”
“That’s right,” Tree said, wishing Rex hadn’t brought it up.
“A private detective on the island? Like Mike Hammer and Philip Marlowe, guys like that?”
“Only without the gun and the trench coat.”
“No trench coat, huh?”
Tree said, “It’s too hot for trench coats.”
“How can you not have a gun?”
“Do you?” Tree shot back.
Ryde Bodie delivered another grin. “I’m not a private eye.”
“Ryde’s new to the island,” Rex said.
“I love it here,” Ryde said. “It’s a perfect place to raise kids, don’t you think? I mean, it�
�s Florida’s last untouched paradise. I looked all over for just the right spot, and this is it, no question. I suppose it gets busy with tourists in season, but so what? You can’t do better than this, right, Tree? I mean you live here, too, don’t you? On the island?”
“Tree’s wife, Freddie, just bought Dayton’s supermarket,” Rex said helpfully.
Now Ryde Bodie regarded Tree with another look: impressed, this time. “You don’t say? Dayton’s? Your wife? Well that’s something, isn’t it? The private eye and the supermarket owner. There’s a unique combination.”
“Freddie doesn’t actually own the store,” Tree managed to interject. “She’s part of a syndicate that’s bought the five stores in the area.”
“Yeah, but she’s running the show, right? She’s the boss lady, is she not? That’s great. Admirable. Women are taking over the world, aren’t they? Leaving us men in the dust. The way of the world, don’t you think, Tree?”
“You may be right,” Tree said.
Ryde Bodie gripped Tree’s hand hard, a manly handshake. “Pleasure to meet you, Tree. Really. A private eye. Right here on Sanibel. We’ll see more of each other, won’t we? I mean we’re in this Oscar thing together, right Rex?”
Rex said, “As long as everyone turns up for rehearsal on time.”
“Hey, thanks for including me,” Ryde said. “It’s gonna be great fun.”
He turned and swirled out the door, shirttail flapping behind him. “How did you meet him?” Tree asked.
Rex said, “At Dayton’s, where else? He seems affable enough. And he’s obviously got some money.”
“If that’s the criteria for being in the show,” Tree said, “what am I doing here? I don’t have any money at all.”
“Hey, you get a pass.”
“Because I’ve known you forever?”
“Because you give the rest of us something to talk about.”
“I do? What do they talk about?”
“What you did with that nine million dollars.”
“I don’t have nine million dollars.”
“But you’d tell your old pal, Rex if you had it, wouldn’t you?”
Tree gave him a look. Rex pounced on it. “See? That’s what’s got everyone talking. You won’t come right out and deny it.”
“I just did. I don’t have nine million dollars.”
