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

by Ron Base

  “I think I broke my hand,” Tommy said. “Is she dead?”

  She certainly wasn’t moving. How do you find a pulse? Tree tried to remember what he’d read about it. Use two fingers. Okay. Press in the hollow between the wind pipe and the large muscle in the neck. He did that. No pulse. He couldn’t feel a pulse. They had killed tiny, gun-toting Paola. Holding his two fingers together, he pressed harder into the hollow of the woman’s neck, and—thanks to whatever gods control these things— got a pulse.

  “She’s alive,” Tree said.

  He heard Tommy exhale loudly. But then he became tense again. “Suppose she’s in some sort of coma? Suppose she never wakes up again.”

  A door across the room opened, a light went on, and a tiny head poked into view. “She’s dead,” Madison announced loudly. “The wicked witch is dead!”

  21

  Joshua appeared a moment later, squeezing past Madison for a better look at the woman on the floor. He then looked anxiously at Tree. “You didn’t kill her, did you?”

  “No, I didn’t. Are the two of you okay?”

  “You know these kids?” Tommy said in a surprised voice. He was still holding his hand.

  “Of course he knows us,” Madison said. “He’s working for us.”

  Tommy looked at Tree. “These kids hired you?”

  “It’s a long story,” Tree said, straightening to inspect the children. They appeared to be in good shape.

  Madison pointed at the woman and said, “I don’t like her, she’s mean.”

  “Worse, she’s a lousy cook,” Joshua said.

  “How did you get here?” Tree asked.

  “They brought us on a boat,” Madison said.

  “Do you know why they took you away?”

  “They told us Dad was in trouble and we had to go with them until everything was safe again,” Joshua explained. “Only when we got here, Madison and I began to think these people were lying to us.”

  “They were lying to us,” Madison declared. “I warned them, I said you were working for us, and that you would come to get us, and sure enough, I was right.”

  “We were right,” Joshua corrected.

  “I gotta get to a doctor,” Tommy said. “My hand is killing me.”

  Behind them, the hatchet-faced Paola suddenly sprang to her feet. Tree couldn’t believe her speed. Almost as fast, her hand shot into Tommy’s crotch. He howled with a combination of terror and pain, flailing uselessly at the woman, who hung onto him for dear life. Madison started to cry and Joshua’s face twisted into a look of anguish.

  Tree saw the gun on the floor, snatched it up, marched over to where Tommy and the woman grappled together and clipped the gun across her head.

  Paola grunted, and loosened her grip on Tommy. Blood streamed down her forehead as she swung around to Tree. Small black pinpoint eyes burned with hatred. She opened her mouth and literally snarled.

  He pointed the gun at her, holding it at arm’s length. “Stay right there,” he ordered in his most authoritative voice—a voice that, to his ears, did not sound all that authoritative. She poised on the points of her feet, body tensed, ready to pounce, that hatchet face sternly set. Then she issued what could only be described as a cackle—it occurred to Tree that maybe the kids were right about the witch part—and then she was gone.

  By the time Tree decided he couldn’t shoot her, she was out the door. He raced onto the porch as Paola reached the bottom of the stairs. He thought again about shooting at her, but she had already disappeared into the darkness of the encroaching mango and cypress trees.

  He stepped back into the cabin. Joshua and Madison were crying. Tommy was down on his knees, holding his crotch.

  “Tommy, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, I’m fine,” Tommy said. “Just give me a minute.”

  Tree went to the kids. “It’s all right,” he said, trying to make his quavering voice sound reassuring. “It’s going to be all right. Thanks to my friend, Tommy, you’re safe now.”

  “It’s not safe,” Madison wailed. “She’s a witch. She’s going to come back for us.”

  “She’s not a witch, Madison,” Tree said in a calming voice.

  Madison wasn’t having any of it. “Yes, she is,” she cried. “Even they call her a witch behind her back.”

  “You keep saying ‘they,’ was there someone else other than the witch?”

  Madison nodded. “There were three of them, including the black-haired man, who was just as bad as the witch.”

  “But the little man was all right,” Joshua interjected. “He kept telling us we would be okay—in English. The others, they all spoke in these foreign languages,” Joshua said.

  “They didn’t speak in foreign languages,” Madison corrected disdainfully. “They spoke Spanish.”

  “That’s a foreign language, Joshua insisted.

  “It can’t be that foreign,” Madison countered. “Daddy speaks it.”

  Tree helped Tommy to his feet. “Did you see what she did to me?” he moaned. “She ruined my junk, that’s what she did. I’m ruined for life.”

  “What’s junk?” Madison asked.

  Joshua made a face at her. “Madison, you don’t know anything.”

  Tree herded everyone outside, Tommy leaning on him as they moved along the roadway back to the Chevy. Tree got the kids strapped into seatbelts in the back and then helped Tommy ease himself into the front passenger seat amid a chorus of grunts and groans.

  Tree got behind the wheel and started up the Chevy, half expecting the witch to fly out from the underbrush and throw herself against the car’s windshield, as in one of the horror movies that age had made it impossible for him to watch. There were enough real life horrors, thanks very much, without paying to see them on a movie screen.

  As Tree backed out onto the roadway and started back for Everglades City, Elvis was on the radio singing “Rock-a-Hula Baby.”

  Madison called out from the back seat. “What’s that awful music?”

  ________

  For a long time on the way back to Fort Myers, Tree imagined an SUV or a pickup truck roaring up behind them, Paola, the witch of Everglades City, in full pursuit. But as the Chevy swept past Naples, Tree began to relax: no one was coming after them. By this time, the children were fast asleep in the back, and even the ever-complaining Tommy had subsided into a sullen, exhausted silence, holding his fight-damaged hand, leaning his head against the side window.

  The question nagging at Tree: what was Paola doing with Ryde’s son and daughter? The kids themselves seemed to have no clue, other than to fuel their already ingrained suspicion that something wasn’t right with their father—wherever he was.

  More pressing was the issue of what to do with the kids. Go to the police? That would be Freddie’s solution—that was always Freddie’s solution. But for the moment, Tree decided, that wasn’t the answer. Detective Owen Markfield was no friend and right now he needed friends.

  What with the traffic and the necessity to fill up the gas tank and the kids wanting to stop for something to eat, it was late morning by the time Tree crossed the causeway onto Sanibel Island. He telephoned Freddie.

  “Are you all right?” She sounded anxious.

  “Yes, I’m fine,” Tree said. “I’ve got Ryde Bodie’s kids with me.”

  “Where did you find them?”

  “In Everglades City. I’m going to take them to the house. Tommy, too. He’s hurt his hand.”

  “What were they doing there?”

  “I’m not sure. They were with Paola, the woman who was at Ryde’s place.”

  “What did you do about her?”

  “After Tommy punched her and I hit her with a gun, she ran away.”

  Dead silence while Freddie processed this information. “All right,” she said slowly. “You think it’s a good idea to bring the kids to our place?”

  “I’m not sure what’s going on, so until I can get to the bottom of it, I don’t want to let them out o
f my sight.”

  “Look, I’m in the middle of back-to-back meetings, but I’ll get away as soon as I can and come home.”

  “I think we’re okay for now,” Tree said.

  The silence at the other end of the line rang in his ear.

  ________

  Once they arrived at the house and he had everyone settled—the kids said they weren’t tired, and then fell asleep as soon as they lay down; Tommy stretched out on the sofa and immediately began snoring—Tree went back out to the Beetle and drove over to the Sanibel School. Fighting to stay awake, he once again joined the Parent Pickup line. Presently, a bell rang signaling the return of the student population to its parents.

  Marcello made his appearance, sauntering out, surrounded by his usual entourage. However, this time Marcello’s face didn’t light up when he saw Tree. “I’ve been trying to get hold of you,” he said.

  “I’ve got Madison and Joshua,” Tree said.

  Marcello looked surprised. “You do? Where’d you find them?”

  “In Everglades City.”

  “That’s some detective work.” Marcello actually sounded impressed. “Where are they now?”

  “They’re at my house for the time being. Listen, I need your help.”

  “You do?” As if he couldn’t believe it.

  “Can you come to my place?”

  Marcello gave him a sideways look. “That mean we’re partners?”

  Tree sighed deeply. “All right, yes. For the moment, we’re partners.”

  That got a smile from Marcello—a hint of triumph in the smile. “Thing is, you gotta call Mrs. Lake and let her know I’m staying with you.”

  Tree telephoned the boy’s foster mother on the way back to Andy Rosse Lane. “A sleepover?” Mrs. Lake, as usual, sounded dubious.

  “Freddie and I are babysitting a couple of Marcello’s classmates, so we thought it might be a good idea if Marcello could stay with them and help Freddie and I babysit.”

  “You’re not giving me much warning,” said Mrs. Lake.

  “Sorry, this just came up,” Tree said. “Look, if it’s a problem, I’ll just drive Marcello home.”

  “No, no, if that’s what he wants, it’s fine with me.” She paused and then said, “Providing it doesn’t have anything to do with Marcello being a private detective or anything silly like that.”

  “No,” said Tree, not very convincingly.

  Marcello was beaming as Tree ended the phone call. “The two Sanibel Sunset detectives,” he pronounced with glee.

  Tree groaned.

  Freddie was home by the time he arrived with Marcello. She had Tommy holding an ice pack wrapped in a towel against his swelling hand. She had engineered a bath for Madison and a shower for Joshua—he being too old for baths, he stated in no uncertain terms. Both kids were delighted to see Marcello. They immediately wanted to play video games.

  “There are no video games,” Tree said.

  Everyone looked appalled. “What kind of house is this?” Joshua wanted to know.

  The boys settled in to watch old YouTube WWE wrestling clips on Tree’s computer while Freddie found drawing paper and pencils for Madison, who announced that she aimed to become a dancer and an artist when she grew up.

  With the kids settled away, Tree exhausted, slipped into the bedroom and lay down. He had been up all night. He was dead tired. He closed his eyes and the sweet bliss of oncoming sleep began to roll through his body.

  Then his cellphone rang.

  Tree’s eyes popped open. He wouldn’t answer it. Couldn’t answer it. He answered it.

  “Tree, it’s Rex,” the voice on the line said. “You haven’t forgotten about the show tonight, have you?”

  22

  The crowd was already gathering outside the Big Arts Center when Tree arrived in the tuxedo he had found in a suit bag at the back of his closet and which he had not worn since—well, probably since he attended some long ago awards dinner when he was still at the Sun-Times. Much of the crowd, he was surprised to see, was also formally dressed. Sanibel Island residents, it appeared, took their Oscar satires seriously.

  He hurried inside and found Rex standing near the stage, elegant in evening wear that fit him like a second skin, relieved when he saw Tree. “Thank goodness,” he said. “I was worried you weren’t going to show.”

  “I’m here,” Tree said. “But what about Ryde Bodie?”

  “What about him?”

  “Is he here?”

  “He’s been here for the last hour,” said Rex.

  “You’re kidding. Where is he?”

  “He’s backstage,” Rex said. “With the other cast members, all of whom showed up on time, as I specifically asked them to. We’re just about ready to go, Tree, so please take your seat over there at the end of the row.”

  “But—”

  “This is no time to argue, the show’s about to begin,” Rex said impatiently. “Sit down.”

  Tree did as he was told, still in disbelief that Ryde had actually shown up. As the lights in the auditorium dimmed, Tree took a quick look around. To his surprise, the seats in the auditorium were full—an elegant-looking crowd of a certain age, as Tree now thought of his peers. He pulled out the piece of doggerel he had prepared for this evening, and immediately felt better: Good grief, they told me to be brief…But there are so many people who deserve my thanks…From Steven Spielberg to Tom Hanks…

  Yes, his speech would knock the audience dead, no question. Once again he mused about his failure to pursue an acting career. Why had he not? If he had become a famous actor, beloved by audiences around the world, then he would not have to put up with the body-numbing hardships brought about by his ridiculous decision to become a detective. What had he been thinking, anyway? The smell of the greasepaint. The roar of the crowd. That’s what should have drawn him. He’d wasted his life in journalism, a profession that had unceremoniously tossed him onto the street the moment it felt it didn’t need him any longer.

  The applause as Rex made his entrance onstage pulled him out of his reverie. Rex stepped smartly to the microphone. He seemed right at home.

  “I attended those other Academy Awards in Los Angeles for the first time in 1962,” he said. “My date was Joan Crawford. That was also the last time I attended the Academy Awards. The next year Joan wasn’t talking to me, and somehow my work as Captain Hobart in G.I. Blues was overlooked by the Academy. So, tonight I’m finally back and I’m on Sanibel Island, my favorite place in the world—among the people I love most.”

  Everyone broke into applause. Rex beamed. He was in his element, Tree thought, exactly the place where he should be—in front of an audience, adored.

  “And tonight,” Rex went on, “we’re going to add a few of the things generally missing from the Oscars these days—humor and movie stars. In order to ensure star power at this show, we’ve called on a few legends from the past—like, for example, Miss Judy Garland!”

  More enthusiastic handclapping greeted the arrival of a tiny woman in a sequined evening gown who threw herself into the role of a middle-aged Judy lamenting the fact that she had never won an Academy Award. A wrestling match ensued when Judy presented the best actress Oscar and then tried to hang onto it. Then Rex introduced a tall islander who was, for a few moments, Clark Gable, followed by James Bond, complete with two lovely island women—on walkers. That brought down the house.

  Rex returned to the microphone to introduce Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers who would present the night’s award for best actor. Tree tensed, not only because this was his big moment, but also because he could not believe Ryde Bodie, having disappeared so effectively from Lee Memorial Hospital, would—or could—make an appearance.

  But a moment later, there he was, a beauty in black tie, gliding with surprising gracefulness onto the stage accompanied by Bonnie, his “Ginger.” She looked stunning in a form-fitting silver sheath. Ryde twirled her around the stage in a fair imitation of what the original Fred and Ginger might
have accomplished on the dance floor. He did not look like a man who had recently been shot. Anything but, in fact. The dance ended with the two of them in front of the microphone, Ryde flashing that irresistible grin he could haul out for such occasions. Tree was on his feet, heart pounding, headed for his big moment in the spotlight.

  He climbed the steps onto the stage. Vaguely, he heard Ryde announce the name of the year’s best actor. It didn’t matter who it was, as Ryde was pointing out. That guy could not be here tonight, “so accepting the award is Sanibel’s preeminent private detective—in fact its only private detective, Tree Callister!”

  Tree was aware of Ryde stepping away so that now the microphone was directly in front of him, shining through the darkness surrounding the stage. The audience was out there—his audience, waiting to be dazzled.

  Wait, though.

  He looked around. Where was his Oscar statuette? He didn’t have his Oscar. Ryde hadn’t given him the Oscar. He glanced at Ryde and at Bonnie, so exquisite in that shimmering gown. They looked back at him blankly.

  He didn’t have the Oscar. That’s all he could think. He leaned close to the microphone, opening his mouth to deliver the speech that would bring the audience to its feet with its wit and eloquence.

  His mouth was open but nothing was coming out. His mind had gone blank. He could not think of a single word that he had rehearsed. He tried again. His mouth was moving, he was certain of that. But it refused to let any words break free.

  The next thing, Ryde was at Tree’s side, shoving the Oscar into his sweating hands, and throwing his arm around Tree saying into the microphone, “These darned actors, they can’t say anything unless it’s written down for them. As an actor, well, Tree’s a great detective.”

  Amid laughter and applause, Ryde led Tree back down the steps and off the stage. Tree was numb. He could not feel anything, and all he could hear was the loud buzzing sound in his head. He seemed to be floating, no longer quite in this place—wishing he was anywhere else in the world.

  23

  What happened to you?” Rex demanded after the show.