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

by Ron Base

  When you think you can go further along Estero Boulevard without driving right off Fort Myers Beach, that’s when the Santini Marina Plaza pops up. It is a low-slung salmon-colored mall fronting a marina and a boat storage facility.

  Tree turned into the parking lot and nudged the Beetle into a space adjacent to a Bank of America cash machine where at mid-day the real-money diehards lined up. He got out and went along a walkway packed with residents of a certain age arriving for lunch from the surrounding condo towers. He passed Annette’s Book Nook, and a real estate office where a knot of tourists studied the condo listings mounted behind glass on the wall.

  Unit five was located a couple of doors beyond the real estate office. There was nothing to indicate this was the office of WGE International. Instead, curtains were drawn across the plate glass windows on either side of the locked glass entrance door. He peered through the door, but could see no more than the outlines of a shadowy interior.

  He went back to the Book Nook and poked his head in the door. A willowy woman seated behind a desk, surrounded by shelves choked with books, examined him from behind rimless glasses. “I was supposed to meet someone at number five. But there doesn’t seem to be anyone there.”

  “I never see anyone in there,” the woman said. “I don’t think the place is occupied. You sure it’s number five?”

  “I’d better phone and check,” Tree said. “Thanks.”

  Tree walked around to where the iron girders of the boat storage units formed an ugly barrier between the plaza and the marina. He ducked through the ironwork of the storage facility and came out onto a paved roadway. Beyond the roadway, a series of T-shaped docks jutted into the bay. At the top of one of the Ts, a long, sleek yacht glinted in the morning sun—el Trueno, according to the lettering stenciled in black vinyl across the stern

  On the dock, a man, stripped to the waist, his gut bulging over his shorts, aimed a hose at the yacht’s hull. Water from the hose splashed against the hull’s ivory surface sending a hazy rainbow into the air. The man turned and saw Tree standing there. He had black hair and a matching mustache. It was, Tree realized, Diego, the guy who had accosted Ryde Bodie at the Traven mansion. He did not smile when he saw Tree—or appear to recognize him.

  “Beautiful afternoon,” Tree said.

  The black-haired man named Diego just stared and didn’t say anything. After a moment, he turned back to the much more important business of spraying the hull with water.

  Tree debated whether to say something about having met him before, but decided that was not a good idea. Instead, he walked back to the plaza and made his way along to the Sandbar and Grille. A half dozen weathered old salts sat on wrought iron chairs finishing lunch. Tree said good afternoon, and everyone responded enthusiastically. A stranger had arrived to hopefully add a little spice to the normal unfolding of another routine day in paradise.

  Tree said, “Anybody here own a boat at the marina?”

  Three of the men nodded. One of the men who didn’t nod grinned and said, “That’s why we make nice to these characters, so they’ll take us out fishing every once in a while.”

  “The best way to enjoy a boat,” a fellow with a lot of front teeth missing, said. “Make sure the other guy owns the boat.”

  “Looking for a place to keep a boat?” The question came from an elderly man with a full head of russet-colored hair.

  “Not me, but a friend of mine is looking around,” Tree said. “He’s at a place just off Sanibel, but he’s not very happy there.”

  “Fine spot here,” the russet-haired man said. “Rates are good, and I think spaces are available. Pretty good draft, too, depending on the size of your boat.”

  “My friend’s boat is a good size. Not as big as that yacht parked down there.”

  “You mean el Trueno?” said the russet-haired man.

  “That’s the one,” Tree said.

  “Means thunder in Spanish. Out of Miami.”

  “I guess if the marina can take a boat like that, it could handle my friend’s boat okay.”

  The russet-haired guy lifted his beer bottle. “That’s what you’re after,” he said. “You think one of us owns that gorgeous boat. You’re hoping to make friends with us so you get invited out for a ride and maybe a glass or two of champagne thrown in, poured by a lovely in one of those string bikinis. I get it.”

  The group laughed, including Tree. “Red,” the guy with the missing teeth said to the russet-haired guy, “you wouldn’t even know how to get that baby out of the bay.”

  “Couple of more beers, no problem,” Red said, inducing more easy laughter.

  “Do you know who owns it?” Tree asked.

  Everyone shook their heads. “Whoever it is, isn’t very friendly,” Red said. “Just goes to show you, the bigger the boat, the more miserable it makes you.”

  “Mexican, three or four of them, including this tiny, ugly woman,” the guy with the missing teeth said.

  “Ugly isn’t the word for it,” Red said,

  “I thought they didn’t speak English, and that’s why they were so withdrawn,” the no-teeth guy said. “But I think they speak the lingo all right.”

  “There’s a fellow with black hair and a mustache down there now,” Tree said.

  “Yeah, I saw him this morning,” said Red. “He’s one of ’em all right. Miserable cuss. But I don’t think he’s the owner.”

  An elegant man with a shock of fine white hair pushed the remnants of his burger to one side and said, “The kids are kind of sweet, though.”

  “There are kids on the yacht?”

  “A boy and a girl,” Red said. “Bored, hanging around, no one to play with.”

  “Is the yacht here all the time?” Tree asked.

  Red shrugged. “Just for the past two weeks. It comes and goes. A day, couple of days, and then it’s gone again.”

  “What about the kids?” Tree said. “Are they always onboard?”

  “I’ve only seen them a couple of times,” Red said. He looked around at the others, and the group nodded agreement.

  “Mostly, it’s been these thug-like characters,” said the elegant man. “Interesting types, but they do make you wonder.”

  “Wonder about what?” Red said.

  “Maybe along the lines of what’s happening to the world.”

  “Well, we know what’s happening,” Red said. “It’s going to hell.”

  Everyone laughed.

  That’s when Tree spotted Tommy—Thomas—Dobbs coming toward him. He couldn’t believe it. What was he doing out here?

  Tommy wore a white shirt and a tie, the tie askew as befitted a proper Chicago newsman—the way Tree used to wear it back in the days when a tie was part of a reporter’s uniform.

  Tree felt his irritation level rise, but he forced himself to remain calm. He thanked the men around the table and walked to meet Tommy.

  “If I didn’t know better, I would say you are following me.”

  “I am following you, Mr. C.”

  “So quit following me.”

  “Then help me get my story,” Tommy said.

  “There is no story, and if there was, this certainly isn’t the way to get me to tell it.”

  “Please explain to me what you’re doing here, Mr. Callister.”

  “No.”

  “Are you on a case?”

  Tree went past Tommy and proceeded to his car. Tommy followed him saying, “You know the police suspect you may have set that fire last night.”

  “I wonder who put that notion into their heads.” Tree reached the Beetle and unlocked the door.

  Tommy arranged to look shocked. “You don’t think I had anything to do with that, do you?”

  “How else would they have known I was at the fire?”

  “How come you lock your door?” Tommy said.

  Tree looked at him blankly.

  “You’re driving a convertible, Mr. C. The top’s down. Why lock your door?”

  “I’m
from Chicago,” Tree said. “Everyone locks everything. It’s the Chicago way.”

  Tree opened the door and started into the car.

  Tommy said, “At least let me buy you a cup of coffee, Mr. C. Make amends.”

  “Make amends? You’re going to buy me a coffee to make amends?”

  Tommy produced an embarrassed grin. “I’m on sort of a restricted budget.”

  That stopped Tree. The light went abruptly on. “You’re not working for the Sun-Times, are you Tommy?”

  “For Pete’s sake, Mr. Callister, it’s Thomas.” His anger was edged with desperation. “How many times do I have to tell you that?”

  “You haven’t been telling me the truth.” Tree, pressing.

  “I am working for them.” His vehemence seemed to knock the air out of him. “It’s just that I’m not really, truly on staff. At least not yet.”

  “Not yet? What’s that mean?”

  “It means I really need this story, Mr. Callister. If they like it, they’ll use it, and that’s the foot in the door I need. You know how it is. You need that one break—and you could help me get it.”

  Tree closed the car door and leaned against the Beetle. “You know, Tommy—Thomas—it would help if you would start out telling me the truth. That way I wouldn’t have to waste all this time with you lying and me having to stop to figure out that you are lying.”

  “I was telling you the truth—sort of.”

  “It’s the ‘sort of’ part that you have trouble with,” Tree said.

  “You gotta help me, Mr. Callister.”

  “I keep telling you, there’s no story.”

  “You got nine million bucks for God’s sake!” Tommy shouted. “There’s a story!”

  A couple on their way into the Book Nook stopped to look at them. Tree said, “Calm down will you?”

  Tommy lowered his head. “Sorry, Mr. Callister. I’m kind of at the end of my rope here.”

  That had the effect of making Tree feel remorseful about the manner in which he was treating Tommy.

  “You’re putting me in a terrible position,” he said.

  “I understand that.”

  “You may get a job, but I could potentially get myself into a lot of trouble I don’t need right now.”

  “So there is a story.” Tommy sounded triumphant, as if clever questioning had finally elicited the information he was looking for.

  Tree said, “Tell me this: are you a good enough reporter that you can get me the name of the corpse they found at the Traven house last night?”

  “Sure, I could do that.”

  “Then do it. After that, we can talk.”

  “So you’ll help me, is that what you’re saying?”

  “Get me that name, and I’ll do the best I can,” Tree said.

  “I don’t know,” Tommy said. “That doesn’t sound like much of a deal to me.”

  Tree looked at his watch. “I’m late for rehearsal.”

  “Rehearsal?” Thomas looked mystified.

  “I’m in a show at Big Arts, and I’ve got to get over there.”

  “So we’ve got a deal?”

  “Get me a name,” Tree said, getting behind the wheel. The last thing he saw as he backed out, was Tommy, shoulders slumped dejectedly, looking lost and alone. Tree swore he was not going to feel sorry for him.

  15

  On his way back to Sanibel, Tree phoned Freddie. “What’s up?” she said, her tone business professional at this time of the day.

  “Have you got a moment?”

  “I’m going into as meeting in about ten minutes, my love,” Freddie said, momentarily more the loving partner than the business professional.

  “Are you near a computer?”

  “I’m going to get you an iPad so you can do this yourself,” Freddie said.

  “This way we get to interact more often,” Tree said.

  “Is that what we get to do?” Freddie said. “Okay. I’m at the computer.”

  “See what happens when you Google Wayne Granger Enterprises International,” Tree said.

  There was a moment of silence. Tree could hear Freddie’s fingers striking a keyboard. Then: “I get nothing.”

  “Try high-interest motor vehicle retail installment contracts.”

  “Just a moment,” she said. He could hear her fingers working the keyboard. She came back on the line. “Here’s something. There’s a Wally Garrison who ran a company called Wally Garrison Enterprises International. Apparently Wally became rich flogging motor vehicle contracts to his clients.”

  “That has to be the WGE I’m looking for,” Tree said.

  “Hold on,” Freddie said. “There’s a story in Forbes magazine. Here’s what it says: ‘As the president and sole shareholder of WGE International, an investment company, Wally could make you rich, provided you were Wally’s friend. Therefore, a lot of people became friends with Wally—not to mention enthusiastic investors.

  “‘Wonderful Wally, as he came to be known, involved his friends in something a little different—motor vehicle retail installment contracts. Not very sexy, you think? Well, think again. You see, most car loans at new car dealers are done via a motor vehicle retail installment contract. These contracts, or notes, can be bundled and purchased using investors’ money. In turn, the investors are guaranteed a hefty twenty per cent return. Wonderful Wally’s pals couldn’t lose.

  “‘Except they could. Wonderful Wally kept all the plates spinning at WGE via an age-old ploy used by fraudsters like him—older investors got that twenty per cent return, using the investment money he had taken from newcomers.’”

  “In other words, a Ponzi scheme,” Tree said.

  “You took the words right out of my mouth,” Freddie said.

  “Keep going.”

  “Okay, apparently Wally had had to learn what all spinners of plates and Ponzi schemers learn, that the plates can’t keep spinning forever. In Wally’s case according to this story, they came crashing down in the wake of the economic meltdown of 2008. Suddenly, Wally’s friends wanted their money out from WGE and those high-interest auto contracts. Except, of course, there was no money. Most of it had gone to fuel the lavish lifestyle of Wonderful Wally.

  “The article goes on to say that as a result of the meltdown, Wonderful Wally was no longer so wonderful. He suddenly didn’t have so many friends. In fact, he didn’t have any friends.”

  “That’s when the feds entered the picture,” Tree said.

  “Exactly. The U.S. Attorney’s Office charged him with conspiracy to commit mail and wire fraud. Basically, the auto contracts were either worthless—multiple investors had purchased the same contracts sometimes as many as four times—or they were non-existent: the investor was paying money for contracts Wally never bought.

  “The story says that if Wally had been convicted on the fraud charges, he would have gone to jail for thirty years. But Wally never got to trial.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “Soon after being indicted, he was found dead in his ten million dollar home in suburban Charlotte. At the time the story was printed, police had not released a cause of death, but they weren’t suspecting foul play. Does that help you?”

  “No mention of Wayne Granger or Ryde Bodie?”

  “Nothing comes up in connection with Wonderful Wally,” Freddie said.

  ________

  By the time Tree reached the Big Arts Center, he was running fifteen minutes late, thanks to the traffic coming off Fort Myers Beach and then more congestion getting onto Sanibel Island. The rest of the cast were already present, chatting in huddles or occupying seats in the theater studying their lines. Rex stood near the front, frowning. “All right everyone,” he said as Tree entered the theater, “Tree is finally here. Let’s get started.”

  When Tree approached Rex, he saw a familiar figure coming toward him. Ryder Bodie plastered one of his blast furnace grins on his handsome face and had a handshake ready. “Tree, good to see you again.” He pumped
Tree’s hand.

  All Tree could say was, “You’re alive.”

  “Alive? Of course I’m alive. What else would I be?”

  “Dead. In last night’s fire.”

  Ryde shook his head. “I told you I had business off Sanibel. Got in first thing this morning.”

  “I thought you were gone for two weeks.”

  “That was the plan,” Ryde said. “But something came up.”

  “Like your house burning down?” Tree said.

  “Besides, I couldn’t miss the show, could I?”

  “What about the kids? Are they with you?”

  “Of course. Where else would they be?”

  “And they’re okay?”

  Ryde gave him a quizzical look. “Never been better.”

  “All right, everyone,” Rex announced. “Let’s begin our run-through, see what we’ve got.”

  Ryde slapped Tree’s arm with the script he was holding. “This is gonna be fun. No business like show business, right Tree?”

  Tree said, “You’re sure you’re okay?”

  “Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Ryde, your house burned to the ground last night. A lot of people think you’re dead,”

  “Well, I’m not dead yet, old buddy,” Ryde said. “As for the house, it’s being taken care of. Not to worry.” As if houses burning to the ground were a regular occurrence in his life.

  “Not to worry? Listen, the police have been around questioning me.”

  “Questioning you about what?”

  “About the fire.”

  “Why would the police question you?”

  “Among other reasons, because I was there—and they think I helped you start it.”

  Ryde looked mystified. “What were you doing there?”

  “The house was on fire. I was supposed to be looking after the place. Isn’t that what you hired me for?”

  Ryde said, “Well, I didn’t hire you to burn it down.”

  “I didn’t burn it down.”

  “Good. I hope you told the police that.”

  “Nonetheless, they seem to think I’m a suspect, along with you.”

  “But you’re not, right?”

  “Of course not. Are you?”

  “Why would I burn down my own house after all the work I’ve put into it?”