Ron Base - Tree Callister 04 - The Two Sanibel Sunset Detectives

by Ron Base

  “No, Jim, I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

  “The rain’s coming down, you tell him that. You make sure he knows.”

  Jim Waterhouse stomped away to his car, got in, and sped off.

  12

  I don’t understand what’s going on,” Marcello said as Tree drove him home.

  “I’m not sure I understand, either,” Tree said.

  “Like this dude’s been ripped off, is that it?”

  “He thinks he’s been ripped off, that’s for certain,” Tree said.

  “Told you this guy Granger was up to no good.”

  “Yeah, but Marcello, there’s a big difference between someone who’s unhappy with a business deal and a father who is placing his children in jeopardy.”

  “What’s the difference?” Marcello demanded. “You tell me that. Dude’s bad with business, he’s bad with his kids.”

  The unassailable logic of thirteen-year-old detectives, Tree thought.

  “You gotta do something,” Marcello said. “They’re in trouble, like I’ve been telling you all along.”

  Yes, do something, Tree thought. But do what, exactly?

  Marcello lived in a frame bungalow on Sea Oats Drive. Jennifer Lake, an attractive African American woman in her late forties, stood on the front lawn wearing a worried expression as they drove up. Tree waved to her as he brought the car to a stop. She did not wave back.

  “How are you doing, Jennifer?”

  “Well, I’ll tell you, I don’t like it much when you pick up Marcello from school and don’t tell me in advance.”

  “I’m sorry about that,” Tree said. “I should have called.”

  “It’s all right,” Marcello said. “Tree and I are partners.”

  Jennifer Lake didn’t look as if that was all right at all.

  _______

  To Tree’s surprise, Freddie’s Mercedes was in the drive when he arrived home. He couldn’t believe it. She wasn’t supposed to be back for another two days. He hurried inside and found her, still business casual from the Chicago trip, blond elegance unruffled, forever his green-eyed beauty, in the midst of pouring a glass of chardonnay.

  “I just got in,” she said a moment before she put the wine bottle down and flung herself into his arms and kissed him so hard it left him breathless. “I missed you,” she said between kisses.

  Tree said, “Can’t tell you how much I missed you.”

  “Show don’t tell,” she admonished, taking him by the hand and leading him into the bedroom, shedding business casual. For the next forty minutes or so they eagerly demonstrated to each other how young and energetic they remained.

  Afterward, they snuggled together, luxuriating in each other’s warmth, delighted to be reunited.

  The meetings in Chicago had gone well, she said. The investors involved in the syndicate that had purchased the five Dayton supermarkets in the South Florida area were happy enough, and the stores were holding their own despite the difficult economic climate and the continuing pressures from the big box competition provided by the Targets and the Wal-Marts.

  As for what Tree had been up to, well, that was a little more problematic, wasn’t it? But then what Tree was doing with his life since they had moved to Captiva defied rational description. How to explain, for example, a sixtyish former newspaper reporter who takes on two children as clients and then gets caught red-handed watching their father’s house, only to be hired by the father to—well, watch the house? Watching for what? Federal agents who might come calling because the father, a smiling charmer if there ever was one, has two names, is rather sketchy about what he does for a living, and is the subject of an investigation?

  Freddie took all this in lying next to her husband. When he finished outlining recent events, she said, “Let me get this straight. His kids say their father has one name, Wayne Granger, while he introduces himself as someone else entirely.”

  “Ryde Bodie.”

  “Wayne Granger is also the name of this fellow who confronted you on Rabbit Road—”

  “Jim Waterhouse.”

  “Jim Waterhouse was looking for Wayne Granger?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Because he believes Granger has defrauded him.”

  “Selling him something called high-interest motor vehicle retail installment contracts. Have you ever heard of those?”

  “No,” Freddie said. “But that doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Waterhouse said he was supposed to be getting a twenty per cent return on his investment, and hadn’t got it.”

  “Maybe that’s why the feds are investigating Wayne Granger who is also Ryde Bodie.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking,” Tree agreed.

  “His children may be onto something,” Freddie said. “None of this sounds right.”

  Tree had to concede it didn’t.

  By now it was dark, and Tree must have dozed off because the next thing he knew Freddie was prodding him and calling, “Tree. Tree, wake up.”

  He sat up and immediately saw what Freddie saw, light flickering eerily against the bedroom wall. “What do you suppose that is?” Freddie said.

  Tree got out of bed and went over to the sliding glass doors that led onto the terrace. He stepped outside and saw that the night sky was lit in a fiery glow. Freddie was behind him, putting her hand on his shoulder. “A fire,” she said.

  “Yeah, but where’s it coming from?”

  They went inside, got dressed to the distant sound of fire engine sirens, and then hurried over to Captiva Drive. The fire glow was coming from further down. It lit the night sky, intersected by plumes of rising black smoke. Other onlookers gathered at the intersection of Andy Rosse and Captiva, peering down the road, speculating as to what might have caught fire.

  “It’s got to be one of the houses on Captiva,” someone said, and everyone murmured agreement—and suddenly Tree had an inkling of what was burning. He turned and ran back to the house. He got behind the wheel of the Beetle, started up the engine and backed out onto Andy Rosse Lane.

  He caught a glimpse of an astonished-looking Freddie as he whipped past. The roadway soon became choked with fire trucks and police and emergency vehicles, lights flashing in the night.

  A sheriff’s deputy waved him over to the beach side of the road. Tree parked on the shoulder and got out. Flames leapt above the wall surrounding the Traven house. The fire burned furiously, fed by a strong ocean breeze, flames licking at the windows and breaking through the roof.

  “Hey, Mr. Callister.”

  Tree turned to find Tommy Dobbs standing behind him, the fire lighting his pale face.

  “Tommy,” Tree said. “What brings you out here?”

  “Thomas, Mr. Callister.”

  “Right. Thomas.”

  “I’m a reporter. Reporters cover fires, don’t they?”

  “Yes, I suppose they do,” Tree said.

  “Must be something to see this place burning,” Thomas said.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You know, from when the Travens lived here. Doesn’t it bring back memories?”

  “In your role as reporter covering the fire, have you spoken to the police or fire fighters?”

  “Of course,” Tommy said with a smile. “They were very impressed that a reporter from Chicago would be here. A couple of these guys, particularly the cops, remember me from when I worked for The Islander.”

  “Do they know what caused the fire?”

  “No idea as yet, but they’ve found something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A body, Mr. C.”

  Tree’s heart jumped. “Did they say who it was?”

  Tommy shook his head. “A charred corpse was all they said.”

  Ryder Bodie who was also known as Wayne Granger? Tree wondered.

  13

  At six the next morning, Tree prepared Freddie’s coffee and turned on WGCU. The station didn’t have much new about the fire other than to
report that the mansion once owned by the disgraced media mogul Brand Traven had been destroyed the night before, and that a body had been found in the remains. Police and fire officials had not yet released the victim’s identity. They were not saying anything about the cause of the fire, either.

  “But it could be this Ryde Bodie,” Freddie said, appearing in the kitchen simply chic by Eileen Fisher.

  “He said he was leaving town with his kids.”

  “Did he say where—or leave you a cellphone number?”

  Tree shook his head, silently kicking himself for not getting more information from Ryde.

  “You drove off like a crazy fool last night.”

  “I’m sorry about that,” Tree said.

  “All your dreams gone up in smoke,” Freddie said, pouring herself coffee.

  “No, just a client’s house—after the client hired me to keep an eye on it—the client whose burnt corpse they may have found in the remains.”

  Freddie, coffee in hand, turned to face Tree. “You’re not blaming yourself for what happened, are you?”

  Tree shook his head. “I guess not, no.”

  “Tree there’s nothing you could have done.”

  Tree said, “Do you remember Tommy Dobbs, the reporter for The Islander?”

  “Is he back on Sanibel working for The Islander?”

  “Well, he’s back but he’s not working for The Islander.”

  “Who is he working for?” Freddie sipped at her coffee.

  “The Sun-Times in Chicago, if you can believe it.”

  “Good for him,” Freddie said. “Was he covering the fire?”

  “He was there, but that’s not what he’s writing about,” Tree said.

  “What’s he writing about?”

  Tree took a deep breath before he said, “Me.”

  Freddie stared at him. “Why would he be doing a story about you?”

  “It’s that nine million dollars.”

  Freddie closed her eyes momentarily, opened them, and then carefully put her coffee cup on the counter. “I’d better get to work,” she said.

  “Freddie, I don’t have nine million dollars. There was no nine million.”

  “You know what, Tree?” Freddie said. “I believe you. The trouble is no one else does.”

  “There are those who remain unconvinced, no question,” Tree admitted.

  “Do you want to know why?”

  He looked at her.

  “No one believes you’re telling the whole truth about your involvement with the late Elizabeth Traven, that’s why.”

  “What about you, Freddie? Do you think I’m telling the truth?”

  “You shouldn’t ask me that, Tree,” she said. “You might get an answer you don’t like.”

  Well, he thought, she’s right about that.

  ________

  “I know a couple of guys over at the fire department,” Todd Jackson said. “They talk about the fire triangle—three factors that are necessary to create fire.”

  “And I’m going to bet you can tell us what those three factors are,” Rex Baxter said.

  “Oxygen, a fuel source, and heat,” Todd explained in his best teacher-student voice. “For the fire to sustain itself, the oxygen level must be above sixteen per cent. The fuel can be any flammable substance, and the heat can come from something as simple as a match. For arson to be present one or more parts of the fire triangle must have been tampered with.”

  “And is that what they are saying happened in this case?” Tree asked.

  “The guys at the department tell me a couple of things—indications there were a number of points of origin and also the presence of an accelerant, in this case, gasoline cans found near the dead guy’s body.”

  Tree finished his coffee. “Do they have any idea who the man is?”

  “The body was pretty badly burned—charred is the word my guys are using. But they think it might have been the owner, trying to burn down his new house for the insurance—but then he got caught in his own fire and died.”

  Tree looked at Rex. “You know Ryder Bodie owns the place.”

  “That would mean we’re going to have to start looking for a replacement for the Oscar show,” Rex said.

  “Boy, Rex,” Todd said, “you really are a heartless character. The guy may be dead and you’re worried about your Oscar show.”

  “I am a show business professional,” Rex said archly. “No matter what happens, the show must go on.” He shrugged. “Besides, I have sources, too, and they tell me not to jump to conclusions before we have all the facts. That way we won’t unnecessarily kill off any island residents or hurt tourism. Usually, we have Tree here to screw up business but so far this year he’s been unusually quiet.”

  “So far,” Todd said. “Let’s not underestimate Tree. The season is far from over.”

  “I’m trying to convince him to move down to Naples,” Rex said. “Destroy tourism there for a while.”

  Tree said, “Ryde has two children.”

  “How do you know that?” said Rex.

  “I’ve met them. Madison and Joshua. If it was Ryde who died in the fire last night, the kids are orphans.”

  “That place is cursed if you ask me,” Rex said. “If there is such a thing as a haunted house on Sanibel Island, that’s it.”

  A tired-looking Detective Owen Markfield appeared in the doorway. Tree could see Cee Jay Boone behind him. “Good morning,” Markfield said. Everyone stared at him. The detective trained his gaze on Tree. “Callister, I wonder if we might have a word with you.”

  “What’s this about?” Tree said.

  Markfield stepped further into the office and said to Rex and Todd, “Gentlemen, would you excuse us?”

  Rex said to Tree, “Maybe you should have someone present when you talk to this guy.”

  “Maybe like a lawyer,” Todd Jackson added, glancing at Cee Jay who remained parked in the doorway.

  “It’s all right,” Tree said. “Detectives Markfield and Boone are old friends.”

  Neither police officer said anything.

  “They don’t look like old friends to me,” Rex said.

  “We just have a few questions,” Cee Jay said.

  Rex got to his feet and Todd followed. “If you need me, Tree, I’m downstairs,” Rex said. He gave Cee Jay and Markfield a dark look. “Just remember, Tree here is a proud member of the chamber,” as though that was all the protection anyone on Sanibel would ever need.

  “Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind,” Markfield said dryly.

  “I’ll see you later, Tree,” Todd said.

  Once Rex and Todd left, Tree invited the detectives to sit down. Markfield made himself comfortable in the chair recently vacated by Rex. Cee Jay, however, did not move from the doorway.

  “We wanted to ask you about the fire at the Traven house last night,” Cee Jay said.

  “I didn’t set it, if that’s what you mean,” Tree said.

  Neither detective smiled.

  Markfield said, “But you were present.”

  “Me and the dozens of others in the neighborhood who came to see what the commotion was about.”

  Markfield said, “Before that, Callister, do you mind telling us where you were?”

  “I was at home in bed with my wife,” Tree said.

  “Can anyone other than your wife verify that?” Markfield said.

  “Wouldn’t you know it? The only other person in bed with me last night was my wife.”

  By now, Markfield had out the notebook he always seemed to bring along for Tree Callister interrogations. Those notebooks filled up fast. Markfield scribbled a notation with his pen.

  “You’re kidding,” Tree said looking at the detectives. “You don’t seriously think I’m a suspect in this, do you?”

  “Suspect in what?” Markfield demanded.

  “I understand the fire might have been set intentionally,” Tree said.

  “What would make you think that?”

  “Why
else would you be here?” Tree said.

  “Are you familiar with the person who now owns the Traven place?” This from Cee Jay.

  “I’ve met the guy,” Tree said.

  “This would be Ryder Bodie.”

  Tree hesitated before he said, “That’s correct.” He wondered if Cee Jay knew that Ryde Bodie was also Wayne Granger—the subject of that federal investigation she had mentioned. He decided not to say anything.

  “Is that who you found in the house?”

  Markfield and Cee Jay traded quick glances. “We have yet to make a positive identification of the body,” Cee Jay said.

  Markfield said, “Where did you meet Bodie?”

  “At the Big Arts Center.”

  Markfield jotted something into his notebook and then looked up at Tree. “Did he ask you to do anything for him?”

  “He hired me to keep an eye on the place,” Tree said.

  “He didn’t hire you to help him set the fire?”

  Tree looked at Markfield. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  Cee Jay said, “Just answer the question, Tree.”

  “No, he didn’t,” Tree said.

  “Suppose I was to tell you we think he did,” Markfield said.

  “Let me see. First of all I’m stealing nine million dollars from foreign governments. Now I’m setting fire to mansions on Captiva Drive. I’m a real master crook, aren’t I?”

  “You’re forgetting the part where you kill people,” Markfield said.

  “Only because I know you’ll always remind me,” Tree said.

  That reduced the room to silence. Finally, Cee Jay straightened up from the door and said, “You are aware that Ryde Bodie is also known as Wayne Granger?”

  Tree looked at her. “Yes, I’m aware of that.”

  Cee Jay didn’t meet Tree’s gaze. Instead she looked over at Markfield, who shrugged before rising to his feet.

  “You’re not thinking of leaving the area, are you Tree?” Markfield said.

  “Should I be thinking about that?”

  “That’s the point,” Markfield said. “You shouldn’t be thinking about it. You should be staying right where you are.”

  “I’ll give it some thought,” Tree said.

  14