The Hound of the Sanibel Sunset Detective

by Ron Base

“This is crazy,” Tree said.

  Outside, Tree heard the sound of a car. “No time left,” Vic Trinchera announced. “I gotta go.” He glared at Tree as if Tree were responsible for all this. “Take him. He’ll lead you to places you never imagined. What’s it going to be, Mr. Private Detective?”

  Tree looked at the dog. He looked at the gun. He took note of the grim set of Vic Trinchera’s face, and understood in a flash that the old man was just crazy enough, desperate enough—whatever—to pull the trigger.

  “Did you say you feed him kibble?” Tree said.

  “A bowl, twice a day. Make sure he gets plenty of exercise.” Trinchera shoved his gun into the belt of his pants and then started toward the door.

  “Hey, wait a minute,” Tree called after him. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  But Vic was already out the door, slamming it behind him. A moment later, he heard the sound of a car heading away from the house.

  Tree, holding the leash, turned and looked at the dog. Clinton’s jaws dropped open, his tongue flopped into view; an irresistible hound dog smile.

  4

  Tree got lost trying to get onto the Palmetto Expressway. He hated himself when he did this, hated the lousy sense of direction everyone accused him of having, when in fact he always knew where he was going.

  Except today.

  Today, making his way out of Miami, he was—well, he was having some difficulty.

  In the back seat, Clinton moved around restlessly. He seemed nervous at being in this unfamiliar vehicle with a stranger behind the wheel. Occasionally, he made whimpering sounds. Tree tried to reassure him. “Listen,” he called back, shooting a glance at the rear-view mirror. “If it weren’t for me, who knows what would have happened to you.”

  The dog settled on his haunches for a time, then rose up, gave himself a good shake and then twisted back and forth in the cramped back seat. Tree tried comforting him again.

  Clinton did not seem reassured.

  The traffic at this time of day was stop-and-go. It took Tree forever to ease back onto the expressway. That’s when everything came to a dead stop. Miami traffic was bad, but usually it wasn’t this bad. Tree gritted his teeth. Welcome to driving anywhere in the twenty-first century. Ahead, he could see motorists, their cars stopped, get out and lean over the barrier at the edge of the highway, peering down onto Coral Way.

  Curious about what was happening, Tree got out of the Beetle and walked to join a knot of motorists focused on the highway below. Coral Way had been blocked off, and there were a dozen blue and white City of Miami police cars and emergency vehicles parked helter-skelter around a black Cadillac Escalade that had come to rest beside one of the overpass restraining walls. He could make out what looked like three holes in the passenger side window.

  “Any idea what happened?” he said to a short, pudgy man wearing a Florida Marlins baseball cap.

  “Shooting of some sort, apparently,” the man in the baseball cap said. “Hey, it’s Miami, right?”

  Below, a police officer approached the Cadillac and gingerly opened the door. As soon as he did, something fell out onto the pavement. The officer quickly stooped to pick it up. But before he did, Tree got a look at it.

  A Greek fisherman’s cap.

  ________

  As he struggled out of Miami rush-hour traffic, local radio reported that there had been a shooting on Coral Way. Police were saying little except that one man was pronounced dead at the scene.

  One man wearing a Greek fisherman’s cap?

  Tree tried to assure himself that there were lots of men in Miami wearing Greek fisherman’s caps, and that the odds of one of those men being Vic Trinchera were not great.

  Or were they?

  After all, how many other men in Greek fisherman’s caps had gone running out the door to avoid three dangerous-looking characters coming to do exactly what had been done to the guy on Coral Way?

  Just before he turned onto Alligator Alley, Tree called Edith Goldman. He got her voice mail. “I’m not sure what’s going on, Edith,” Tree said. “Call me as soon as you get this. We need to talk.”

  As he started to punch out Freddie’s number, Clinton in the back, considerably settled since they left Miami, squeezed his head between the seats and nuzzled Tree’s hand. “I’m not going to pet you,” Tree said to the dog. “If I start to pet you, I’m going to get attached to you, and that’s a mistake.”

  Clinton responded by pushing at his hand. “I can’t have a dog in my life,” Tree went on. “I’m supposed to be simplifying things, not making them more complicated.”

  Tree put the phone down and reached back to stroke the dog’s snout while he drove. “Don’t get the idea I’m a pushover for you or anything like that,” Tree admonished. “Your real problem, as you will soon discover, is my wife, Freddie. How she’s going to react to your arrival is anyone’s guess.”

  “At least I can hear you,” Freddie said when she came on the line. “Where are you?”

  “I’ve got a dog,” Tree said.

  “Where’s I’ve-got-a-dog?” Freddie asked.

  “It’s not a place,” Tree said. “It’s a dog.”

  “I’m having trouble with this line again. I could have sworn you said something about a dog.”

  “I’ve got one—we’ve got one. A dog, I mean.”

  “Tree, we can’t have a dog.”

  “The guy was going to shoot him.”

  “What?

  “Vic Trinchera. The guy. He pulled out a gun and put it to Clinton’s head. He would have pulled the trigger if I hadn’t agreed to take him.”

  “Who is Clinton?” Freddie sounded exasperated.

  “Clinton is the name of the dog. He’s a French hound.”

  “A French hound named Clinton?”

  “After President Clinton.”

  “Don’t come home with a dog,” Freddie said.

  Then she hung up.

  “You see the kind of trouble you’ve got me in,” Tree said to the dog. “Now what am I going to do with you?”

  He felt Clinton’s damp nose nuzzle against the back of his arm. “Don’t think that’s going to do you any good,” Tree said.

  Clinton nuzzled again, and, of course, that was all it took for Tree not to think twice about driving to the first Pet Valu he spotted off the highway. He bought a bag of Iams kibble, two large aluminum bowls, dog bone treats, a dog bed, extra-large, as well as a yellow ball. Clinton accompanied Tree along the aisles, wagging his tail in encouragement.

  When they finally reached Andy Rosse Lane, Tree led Clinton inside the house and unsnapped his leash. The dog spent the next few minutes sniffing around the kitchen and living room, acclimatizing himself to his new space. Meanwhile, Tree poured kibble into one bowl and filled the other with water. He placed the bowls on the floor. Clinton sauntered over, sniffed at the kibble and then continued on with his inspection tour.

  Freddie arrived home an hour or so later. As soon as she walked in the door, Clinton’s head shot up, his ears arched, and he uttered a loud, decisive howl.

  “What big ears he has,” Freddie said.

  “At least you didn’t say ‘get rid of that dog,’” Tree said.

  “I’m barely in the door. Give me a moment.”

  Clinton lowered his head and then came over to Freddie, the nails of his paws clicking against the kitchen tile, his tail wagging furiously. “I’m not going to pet him,” Freddie said.

  “That’s what I said,” Tree said.

  “If I pet him, that’s it. I’m lost.”

  “Join the club,” Tree said.

  Freddie reached out a tentative hand. Clinton lifted his head to meet her hand. “He has such soft fur,” Freddie said. Her hand slid back and forth along his forehead and then moved down to scratch his ears. Clinton turned his head and closed his eyes. “He likes that,” Freddie said. She looked at Tree. “What are we going to do with him?”

  “I’ve got to get hold of Edith and fi
nd out what’s going on,” Tree said. “She never said anything about babysitting a dog. She also didn’t say anything about three toughs who might be looking for a guy who is supposed to be a law-abiding Montreal businessman.”

  “Tree, you are retired. Remember?”

  “I am retired,” Tree said, as much to convince himself as Freddie.

  Clinton had returned to his kibble for another sniff while Freddie retreated to the refrigerator and a bottle of chardonnay. Tree told her about stopping at the Biltmore Hotel and his encounter with three men who appeared to be planning something for Trinchera. “As soon as I told Vic about these guys, he left the house in a car, leaving me with the dog.”

  “Did these characters show up?”

  “Not before I got out of there,” Tree said.

  “So it could be nothing,” Freddie said. “It could be that these men were business associates or something.”

  “If they were, why didn’t Vic stick around? The old guy got out of there pretty fast, let me tell you.”

  Freddie poured white wine into a long-stemmed glass. “I can’t believe Edith got you involved in this.”

  “Whatever ‘this’ is.”

  “It involves thugs and a disappearing old guy—not good.”

  “And a dog.”

  “Yes, a dog.” Freddie sipped her wine. “The hound of the Sanibel Sunset detective.”

  “Only temporarily.” Tree looked at Clinton, engrossed in gulping down his kibble. “I’ll get hold of Edith and then get the dog back to his owner. No problem.”

  Freddie stopped sipping her wine. “I hate it when you say that.”

  “Say what?”

  “When you say ‘no problem.’”

  “Why do you hate it?”

  “Because,” Freddie said, “whenever you say there is ‘no problem,’ there is inevitably a problem.”

  _________

  As Tree and Freddie undressed for bed later that night, Clinton poked his head through the door, inquisitively inspecting his new hosts. Tree sighed and went into the kitchen and retrieved Clinton’s bed and brought it into the bedroom. Freddie was already in bed, her back to him, announcing, “I’m dead.”

  “I know you are,” he said.

  He placed the dog bed on the floor. Clinton raised a paw and poked at it a couple of times before springing onto Tree and Freddie’s bed with unexpected agility. He sat back on his haunches, lowered his head so that his ears fell forward. Then he began to bite at them.

  “What’s he doing?” Freddie murmured, her eyes closed.

  “He’s playing with his ears,” Tree said.

  That brought Freddie up on her elbow, watching Clinton gnaw at his ears.

  “I don’t believe it,” she said. “The dog is playing with his ears.”

  “It’s too bad they cancelled the Ed Sullivan Show,” Tree said.

  “Tree, he shouldn’t be on the bed,” Freddie said.

  Clinton tired of playing with his ears, lowered himself onto the mattress, dropping his head between his paws, those big, doleful eyes on Tree.

  “It’s his first night here,” Tree said. “He’s probably feeling stressed, a new environment and everything. We should do all we can to put him at ease.”

  “You’re too much of a softy.” Freddie had lain down again. She already sounded as though she was drifting off.

  “Not me,” Tree said. “I’m hard as nails.”

  He turned off the light and then crawled into bed. Clinton snuggled against him. Tree reached out and put his arm around Freddie. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too, my darling,” Freddie confirmed. A moment later she was sound asleep.

  Tree lay in the darkness, his arm still around his wife, feeling the weight of Clinton against him, thinking about the day’s events, worrying he had not heard from Edith. Maybe he was imagining things, as Freddie suggested. Maybe the three men at the hotel were not after Vic Trinchera. But then why would Vic threaten to shoot his own dog, then disappear, and what—get himself killed on the side of a Miami highway?

  The television news hadn’t been much help. Late that night, according to the reporter covering the story, Miami Police still had not identified the man who had been shot in the Cadillac Escalade on Coral Way. As Tree turned on his side, he clung to the hope that the dead man wasn’t Vic Trinchera. Clinton shifted so that he nestled into the crook of his new pal’s legs. What were they going to do about a dog? Tree thought. Not to worry. He would get in touch with Edith, and she would find out what had happened to Vic Trinchera. Except even if Vic were alive, he appeared capable of shooting Clinton, and Tree could not imagine that. No one was going to shoot this dog if he had anything to do with it.

  As he drifted off, Tree was filled with a sensation he had not experienced in a long time, an intense feeling of well-being. He could hardly believe it. It must be something else. It could not be the dog.

  Except it was.

  So Charles Schulz was right.

  Happiness is a warm puppy.

  5

  When the alarm went off at its usual six o’clock time the next morning, Tree came slowly awake to discover Freddie already sitting up—staring down at Clinton stretched out against Tree, dead to the world.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Freddie said.

  “What?” Tree struggled up, trying not to disturb the sleeping Clinton.

  “The dog slept with us last night.”

  “You knew that.”

  “I thought I was dreaming.”

  Clinton stirred, lifted his head, and then squirmed around until he was lying on his back between the two of them, his legs in the air.

  “He wants you to stroke his stomach,” Tree said.

  “I am not stroking this dog’s stomach,” Freddie said.

  Clinton squirmed some more. Freddie sighed before reaching out a tentative hand and rubbing it along his belly. Clinton moved his head back so that his throat was exposed. He looked ecstatic.

  “We can’t do this,” Freddie said, continuing to pet him.

  “We can’t do what?”

  “We can’t allow ourselves to become attached to this dog.”

  “We’re not attached.”

  “Yes, we are, Tree, and he’s not our dog. You’re going to have to give him back.”

  “I know that,” Tree said.

  “I don’t think you do,” Freddie said.

  She stopped petting Clinton, and he rolled onto his side. She took another look at him, shook her head, and then got out of bed. “I’m going to take a shower,” she said.

  Tree got up and stretched. His sciatic nerve was throbbing, and he had trouble walking on his left foot thanks to what he had learned was plantar fasciitis caused by the wear and tear of morning beach runs on the ligament connecting the heel bone to his toes. He hobbled into the kitchen, Clinton following eagerly.

  Tree finished making the coffee as Freddie, right on cue, entered wearing a pale linen pantsuit. As he did each morning, Tree marveled at her exquisitely cut blond hair, the dazzling green of those eyes, the subtle, sensual elegance of a beauty age had failed so miserably to defeat. He wondered, as he wondered at some point every day, how he had ever been lucky enough to marry her—how she had been crazy enough to marry him.

  He handed her a coffee cup, accompanied by a kiss on the mouth. Clinton sniffed around the kitchen, reconfirming his new surroundings. Freddie watched him as she sipped her coffee. Tree noticed she could not help smiling.

  “See?” he said. “You like him. You can’t help but like him.”

  “Of course I like him,” Freddie said putting her coffee on the counter, half finished. “He’s a big, lovely, affectionate guy—somewhat like my husband. I just don’t want to like him too much.” She kissed Tree’s mouth. “The dog, I mean. Not the husband.”

  “I’m glad you clarified that for me,” Tree said.

  “I’ve got to get going. What are you up to today?”

  “I’m retired, remember?
Maybe I’ll wander around and see if I can find a shuffleboard game somewhere.”

  Freddie rolled her eyes and gave him another kiss. “You are going to do something about the dog, aren’t you?”

  “I’ll get in touch with Edith and see if I can get to the bottom of what’s going on.”

  “Please don’t get yourself mixed up in anything you shouldn’t be mixed up in,” Freddie said.

  “I never do.”

  “Liar.” At least she said it affectionately, Tree thought.

  Didn’t she?

  ________

  Tree poured more kibble into a bowl and set it on the floor. This time Clinton didn’t bother with food inspection but dug right into it while Tree went into the bedroom and changed into a T-shirt and shorts. He waited until Clinton finished off the bowl and then put him on his leash and the two of them proceeded out onto Andy Rosse Lane and down to the beach at the end of the street.

  Tree thought about it, and then unhooked Clinton’s leash from the bright yellow collar he wore around his neck. “Okay, now I trust you not to run away,” he said to the dog. Clinton, busily sniffing the sand, did not appear to be listening.

  Tree broke into a run. Clinton, ears flapping, bounded along beside him.

  It was another one of those perfect sun-drenched mornings Tree had begun to take for granted, except today was even better, out here on the beach, his sciatic nerve calm, the pain momentarily gone from his foot tendons, splashing in the surf, with one’s beloved canine companion.

  Except Clinton wasn’t exactly his, as Freddie was quick to remind him. That caused Tree to slow his pace while Clinton raced on, those giant paws kicking up tufts of sand. Clinton was just a dog, after all. Tree would care for him as long as necessary and then give him up and that would be that.

  How could it be anything else? The last thing he and Freddie wanted in their lives right now was a dog—even if they could have Clinton.

  Which they couldn’t.

  His cellphone rumbled and vibrated in his pocket. He pulled the phone out. It was Edith. At once he was relieved and crushed. For a crazy moment, he debated whether to take the call. Then he swiped the phone open.

  “Edith,” he said. “I’ve been trying to get hold of you.”