by Ron Base
She took a tentative sip and smiled. “It’s delicious. Are you not going to have a drink?”
“I think I’ve had enough,” he said.
“Come on, Monsieur Tree Callister from Sanibel Island, you can’t toast Hemingway and Paris and then not drink.”
“Maybe you’re right,” he said with a grin, and finished off the rest of his kir.
His eyes watered, and he felt that warmth again. The room softened around him. Or was that his kir-fueled imagination?
“So let me see, Sanibel Island,” she said. “That’s off the west coast of Florida, isn’t it?”
“That’s right. In fact, the agency I run is called The Sanibel Sunset Detective Agency.”
“And how many agents does Sanibel Sunset Detective employ?”
“Just one,” Tree said.
“You?”
“I’m the Sanibel Sunset detective.”
“I see. Are there many calls for private detectives on Sanibel Island?”
He laughed and shook his head. “Everyone thought I was crazy, including my wife. But there is business as it turns out.”
“You’re in Paris with your wife?”
“Yes, we’re here celebrating her birthday.” Now Tree was beginning to feel embarrassed, and the burning in his face wasn’t just the result of the unexpected liquor in his system. He hastened to awkwardly explain: “She’s come down with some sort of bug. I ducked out to get something to eat.”
“I’m sorry to hear she’s not feeling well,” Cailie said. “I hope she’s going to be all right.”
The waiter returned and asked in English if they wanted menus. “I haven’t eaten anything today and I’m starving. Have you eaten yet?”
“No, not yet,” he said.
“Why not get something together, and then you can get back to your wife, and I’ll go back to my lonely, miserable hotel room.”
“Now I’m starting to feel sorry for you,” he said.
“Maybe that’s the idea.”
“A beautiful young woman in Paris, you won’t be lonely for long.”
“In the meantime, I am hungry.”
Tree thought of Freddie back at their apartment. She probably was sound asleep. And he was hungry, and, he had to admit, the kir royale had released something inside him. He felt loose and free tonight, like the old days in Paris. Why not dinner? He glanced around at the unoccupied tables and booths. “Why don’t we sit over there against the wall?” He turned to the bartender. “Is that all right?”
“Bien sûr, monsieur.”
They took their drinks to the table. Cailie sat facing him and the waiter brought the menus.
“Tell me about yourself,” Tree said. “You grew up in St. Louis. Are you still there?”
She studied the menu a moment before she said, “Very much so.”
“What do you do there?”
“Right now, I’m not so sure.”
“No?”
“It’s the sort of confusion that occurs in a life when your sister is killed, and you break off with your fiancé, and all the things you thought were certain in life suddenly aren’t so certain anymore.”
“I’m sorry,” Tree said.
“Don’t be sorry about the fiancé,” she said. “He’s a jerk. But my sister was a different matter. We weren’t very close, but still, she was my sister. Everyone in the family was devastated, of course. My parents are having a terrible time with it. I had to get away. I’ve always wanted to come to Paris, and so I thought, well, if I’m ever going to do it, then maybe now is the time.”
“And was that a good decision?”
She paused to consider this. “I think so,” she said carefully. “Although it turns out you can’t outrun your demons—or your memories.”
“You certainly can’t outrun your memories,” Tree said. “That’s the trouble with Paris. It holds onto them for you and waits for you to come back and then springs them on you.”
“Maybe,” she said with a shrug. “But I’m a newcomer, remember. So I bring dreams to Paris, not memories. Overall, Paris has been a fine escape. I don’t have to think about my sister here, I don’t have to think about anything but seeing and experiencing all the things I’ve always dreamt about the city.”
“What happened to your sister?” he asked.
Cailie appeared not to have heard the question.
A server arrived and so they ordered: the red mullet filet for him; simple chicken for her, accompanied by a glass of Pouilly Fuissé. He declined wine. The warming effects of the kir were beginning to wear off, leaving him with a slight buzzing in his head. He should never have had that drink. When their meals arrived, they ate pretty much in a silence filled with Gershwin and Cole Porter, and some Henry Mancini, courtesy of the piano player.
By the time they finished, the few diners inside the brasserie had departed. The piano player had closed down for the night. Tree ordered the check, feeling a lot more sober and somewhat relieved: he was enjoying his time with this lovely young woman, but he could not quite shake the guilt he was feeling, thinking of Freddie sick and alone while he dined in style at a fashionable Paris bistro. Now it was ending, and he could get back to Freddie.
When the bill arrived, Cailie insisted she pay. “It’s my treat,” she said. “I was expecting a boring evening all alone in Paris. Then here you are to make things a lot more interesting.”
“I’m not sure how interesting I made them,” Tree said.
“Would you like to do me a favor?”
“Sure, what can I do?”
“Do you mind if we share a taxi?”
“Of course not.” Why wouldn’t he share a taxi, after all? At this time of night, it would be hard enough to get one cab, let alone two.
I’m staying at the Lutetia. Do you know where that is?”
“On Boulevard Raspail. I’ve stayed there many times.”
“If you could drop me off, that would be great.”
To his surprise, they found a taxi waiting outside—his lucky night for cabs in Paris. They were only five minutes away. They rode in silence down the wide boulevard to the hotel. When they pulled up in front, Cailie said, “This is really embarrassing.”
“What is it?” Tree said.
“The fiancé I was telling you about? I broke it off, like I said, but he’s followed me to Paris.”
“This guy is here?”
She nodded. “That’s why I went to La Closerie des Lilas tonight. He was bothering me, so I jumped in a taxi and, not knowing where else to go, I told the driver to take me there. My fiancé doesn’t know a whole lot about Paris restaurants, so it worked. Would you mind walking me to my hotel room, just in case he’s lurking around.”
“Sure,” Tree said. “But if he’s threatening you, you should go to the police.”
“Well, I’m not particularly anxious to deal with the French police, and it’s just for tonight. I’m flying back to St. Louis tomorrow. Besides, I’ve got the Sanibel Sunset detective with me, so I’ll be all right.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Tree said. “But let’s get you inside the hotel.”
She insisted on paying the driver. They went up the front entrance steps. The lobby was deserted, no sign of unhappy fiancés. Tree had stayed at the Lutetia during the eighties when it was in its five-star glory. Tonight, the lobby appeared shopworn, a grand dowager still trying to put on a good front, but no longer able to hide the fact that age was catching up with her—a bit like himself.
Tree followed Cailie to the bank of elevators. “I’ll say goodbye here,” he said.
“Humor me, please, Tree,” she said. “Stay with me until I get to my room.”
“All right,” he said. Yes, that was the polite thing to do, he thought. The last few moments in the final act of the production titled Reliving Your Youth—making sure the beautiful young woman got safely to her room.
She smiled her thanks. “It’s probably nothing. But just in case.”
They t
ook the elevator to the sixth floor and stepped into a long corridor done in drab greens and browns. “I was just thinking,” she said. “Maybe you’ll expand your agency. Soon you’ll need another Sanibel Sunset detective.”
“Why? Do you have experience as a detective?”
They reached the door to her room. She inserted a card in the lock, and the little light blinked green, and the door clicked open.
“Sanibel Island sounds intriguing.”
“It’s a unique, lovely island, no question,” Tree said.
He held the door for her and she went through saying, “Come in for a moment.”
He followed her inside. The door hushed shut behind them. He had an impression of two single beds pushed together—a bad habit at the Lutetia, Tree thought—heavy drapes, French doors open to the cooling night air. Cailie Fisk in a blur descended, wrapping her arms around him, her lips anxious to find his mouth, her slim body pressed hard against him.
He was so taken aback that for a moment he did nothing—the telling, damning, weak moment that was to haunt him. Then, realizing what he was doing, or wasn’t doing, he jerked away in the same panicky manner he might have dodged a punch.
“What are you doing?” The words sounded forced and lame.
“It’s Paris,” she said, curiously out of breath.
She reached around, doing something to her blouse. The next thing, to his astonishment, she was naked to the waist. He backed toward the door, turning away from the glowing invitation of her body.
“What’s wrong with you?” she called.
“I’m leaving,” he said.
“You’re what?” Cailie amazed.
He reached the door. Cailie crossed to him, her face twisting into anger. “You fool,” she said. “You stupid fool.”
“I thought I was helping you,” was all he could think to say.
“Get out,” she yelled. “Get out of here!”
He struggled to open the door. She called him more names and then he was outside, the air conditioned silence of the corridor wrapping around him. He took deep breaths, assaulted by conflicting emotions, among them, he had to admit, stirring lust, but also—the detective rising—suspicion. What was a stunning young woman doing coming onto him like that? What was she up to?
He half expected Cailie to come after him. But her door remained closed as he stumbled thankfully into an elevator.
Outside, a sleepy doorman stepped off the curb to flag down a taxi for him. As he waited, it occurred to him that maybe he still held some untapped attraction for women, an allure obscured by marriage and Freddie’s overwhelming presence. Let out on his own, women could not resist him. He could hear Freddie’s echoing laughter as the doorman held the taxi door for him.
By the time the taxi dropped him off, and he climbed the stairs to the apartment, it was nearly one o’clock, and he was exhausted—tiring work escaping beautiful, predatory women.
Freddie lay curled in the bed, barely visible in the darkness. She did not stir as he finished undressing and eased himself next to her.
He lay there, feeling empty and sick and terribly guilty in Paris.
3
Tree should have told his wife.
But he didn’t. And that’s when the trouble started.
It started on a morning shortly after they got back to Sanibel when his friend Rex Baxter stepped on board the thirty-two foot cabin cruiser, Former Actor, he had purchased on eBay, and said, “No one in Paris loves Paris. I’ve spent enough time in the city to know that much. Only tourists love Paris. Tourists like you, Tree. They hold onto this romantic myth that doesn’t exist, except maybe in old movies.”
As he talked, Rex turned the ignition on his new boat. The engine coughed a couple of times, but failed to turn over.
Tree Callister stood on the rear deck watching Rex, the president of the Sanibel-Captiva Chamber of Commerce, who had never owned a boat before, and Todd Jackson, who remained dubiously on the dock at the Port Sanibel Marina.
“It’s a great boat,” Tree said.
“It won’t start,” Todd said. He was an elegant-looking man with a carefully trimmed mustache who owned and operated Sanibel Biohazard, a company that specialized in cleaning up after dead people.
“It will start,” Rex said. He turned the ignition again. This time the engine did not even cough.
“You should never have bought this boat,” Todd said.
“It’s a great boat,” Tree repeated with an enthusiasm he didn’t feel. Secretly, he agreed with Todd. Rex was many things, but he was not a boat person.
“It’s a great boat, except it won’t start,” Todd said.
“It will start,” Rex insisted.
But it didn’t. Rex started swearing.
“I told you,” Todd said calmly. “You have bought yourself an ocean of trouble with this tub.”
Rex swore some more.
“Don’t get mad at me,” Todd said. “Get mad at the dude who sold you a boat with an engine that doesn’t work.”
“It works, it works,” Rex insisted, tearing at the hatch cover. The three men stared down at the twin Crusader engines. “It looks all right,” Rex said.
“How’s it supposed to look?” Todd said.
Rex looked at Tree.
“What I don’t understand,” he said waving his hand expansively to take in not only the boat but also the Lighthouse Restaurant overlooking the bay, “is how you could ever leave all this. You live in paradise here on Sanibel Island.”
“Where you can buy your own boat on eBay that doesn’t work,” Todd interjected.
“It works,” Rex protested. “It works fine.”
“It just doesn’t start, that’s all,” Todd said.
“Five hundred thousand visitors every year dream and scrimp and save their money so they can spend time in paradise,” Rex said with an angry, frustrated edge to his voice. “So what do you do, Tree? You leave paradise. For Paris? For the smog from all those cars and the smoke from all those Frenchmen puffing on Gauloises? I don’t get it. You know what Arthur Frommer, the guide guy, said about this island, don’t you?”
“Shouldn’t we concentrate on the boat,” said Tree in a tired voice, having heard this a thousand times before. “We’re standing in the middle of a marina. There must be someone around here who knows what to do.”
“Frommer rates Sanibel Island as his top travel destination,” Rex continued, undeterred. “Paris came in third. Third, behind Sanibel.”
“You should be ashamed of yourself, Tree, for even thinking of leaving,” Todd said.
“It’s his wife,” Rex said. “Tree made the mistake of marrying one of those sophisticated, worldly women who can speak French. Naturally, women like that can seduce men into doing anything, even going to Paris.”
Tree’s cell phone rang. It was so seldom he ever received a call on the phone, it made him jump. “It’s okay, Tree,” Rex said. “No one’s taking a shot at you. It’s just your cell phone. They do ring from time to time.”
“It’s not a cell phone, it’s a smart phone,” Tree said.
“Whoever it is, ask them if they know anything about boats,” Todd said.
Tree held his smart phone and said, “Sanibel Sunset Detective Agency, Tree Callister speaking.”
“Mr. Callister,” an English-accented voice said, “my name is Trembath. Joseph Trembath. I’m executive assistant to Miram Shah. Are you aware who he is?”
“I’m afraid I’m not,” Tree said.
“That’s fine,” Trembath said. “The point is Mr. Shah would like to speak to you. He’s over on Useppa Island. We were wondering if it might be possible for you to come over here to have a meeting with him.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have easy access to a boat.”
“We would send a boat for you.”
“When would you like to do this?”
“How’s your time this afternoon?”
“Sure,” Tree said. “I could make some time this afternoon.�
��
“Shall we say two o’clock at the South Seas Resort boat dock?”
“I’ll be at there.”
“Very good, Mr. Callister. I look forward to seeing you then.”
Tree closed his phone. Rex was back at the controls, hitting the ignition switch. Todd was bent over the engines as if he knew something about them. He cocked his head. “I thought I heard a sound,” he said.
“What?”
“A slight whirring sound, I think.”
Tree said, “Either of you ever heard of someone named Miram Shah?”
They both looked at him blankly. Rex said, “Is that who just called?”
“His assistant. I think he wants to hire me.”
“Good,” said Rex. “Maybe you’ll finally be able to pay the exorbitant rent I charge you.”
“Money you’ll need to get the boat fixed,” Todd said.
“The boat’s okay, I tell you. Must be some sort of electrical thing.”
“A sea of trouble my friend,” Todd said. “A sea of trouble. It’s only just started. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“I got no more time for this,” Rex said. “I’d better get to the office and finish up my eagerly anticipated newsletter.” He grinned at Tree and slapped him on the arm. “Glad you’re back.”
“Good to be back—I think. And congratulations on your boat.”
“It’s going to work fine.”
“If you get it fitted with oars,” Todd said.
________
Back in his office upstairs at the Chamber of Commerce Visitors Center, Tree Googled Miram Shah’s name. A five-year-old New York Times story reported that Miram Shah, the deputy director of Pakistan’s Interservice Intelligence Agency—the ISI—was in Washington to meet with American officials aiming to strengthen ties with the agency that was the Pakistani equivalent of America’s Central Intelligence Agency.
The Times said Shah supported General Zia ul-Haq when he seized power in 1977. That support quickly propelled Shah into the upper echelons of the intelligence community, and brought him into contact with the CIA and its covert operations against the Soviets in neighboring Afghanistan. Shah, according to the Times, worked closely with American intelligence and the Afghan Mujahedeen.
