The Hound of the Sanibel Sunset Detective

by Ron Base

  They had met at WBBM-TV following one of his appearances on Rex Baxter’s afternoon movie show, the two men discussing the many virtues of Jimmy Stewart movies, Tree relating how he had interviewed Jimmy in Ann Arbor, Michigan, as a young reporter.

  After the show, they were standing together in the hallway outside the studio when Kelly Fleming came along, the popular anchor of the six o’clock newscast. Rex had introduced them. A week later, she called and asked him out to dinner. That was okay. He was flattered at the attention, but they had dated twice and nothing was really clicking. He was still licking his wounds from the breakup of his first marriage and had no energy to pursue her. Besides, she worked in television, and as far as he was concerned—although he would never say anything—that worked against her. Glamorous women in television. Not for him. Not for the hard-bitten, hard-drinking, hard-living newspaperman.

  At least that’s what he told himself.

  She had turned up at his apartment wearing a white blouse tucked into velvet jodhpurs. For some reason the jodhpurs annoyed him. Who wore jodhpurs to a party? The evening could not end fast enough.

  They had walked together around the corner through a snowy Chicago night. The party was on the second floor of a Lincoln Park townhouse crowded with journalists. Somehow, they had become separated. He wasn’t that interested in spending time with her, anyway. Then one of his editors wandered over, chalky face, strands of hair dripping over his forehead. “Who is that woman you’re with?” he demanded. Someone else came along and slapped him on the shoulder and said, “Good for you. She’s wonderful.”

  Then the crowd seemed to part and he saw her perched on a stool, surrounded by party guests, their faces shining with interest as she chatted away. Her eye caught his—a twinkle in those eyes. And something hit him. The proverbial lightning bolt. He could hardly believe it. The woman who, a few minutes before, he had wanted to get rid of, suddenly mesmerized him. How had that happened?

  All these years later, replaying that long-ago party scene as Tree lay there in the first morning light, he still wondered. Was he such an egotist that the admiration of others could drive him to fall in love in a flash with someone he started the evening intending never to see again? Or was the attraction there from the beginning, and he had managed to keep the lid on it until they got to that party? Hard to say, and at this point, he told himself, it didn’t matter.

  But if it didn’t, why did he continue to mull it over after all this time?

  Beside him, Freddie breathed softly. He reached over and touched her. Clinton was stretched out between them, sound asleep. Tree eased out of bed. Clinton stirred, rolling onto his side, but continuing to sleep.

  In the kitchen, Tree debated whether to make coffee, decided to wait until Freddie was awake. There was the click of paws on the hardwood floor a moment before Clinton appeared in the kitchen, tail wagging, ready for his morning walk. Tree sighed, remembering yet again—not that he needed much reminding—that when you had a dog, your life was no longer your own. Your life was your dog’s life. He bent down and scratched Clinton’s ears. “Well, that’s not so bad, is it, baby dog? There are worse things in this world than having to take care of you.”

  Clinton did not seem to disagree.

  Tree got into shorts and a T-shirt, slipped on a pair of sneakers and then hooked an impatient Clinton to his leash. Out they went into the cloudless morning, Tree’s feeling of well-being quickly replaced by a wave of anxiety. He looked down Andy Rosse Lane, fearing he and the dog might be attacked by the Montreal Mafioso. But the street at this time of day was nearly deserted. Clinton charged toward the end of the street, seemingly not at all embarrassed to be pulling along an awkward, stumbling human.

  “I don’t know whether you’re aware of it, but there’s a dog at the end of that leash.” Tree turned in the direction the voice had come from. Rex Baxter stood behind him.

  “You’re kidding me,” Tree said.

  “I would never kid you, Tree. At least not this early in the morning.”

  Tree pulled Clinton to a stop and waited for Rex to amble over.

  “Here’s where I haven’t been doing my homework,” Rex said. “I didn’t know you had a leash, let alone a dog on the end of it.”

  “You’re not supposed to know I’ve got a leash,” Tree said.

  “What about the dog?”

  “Or a dog.”

  “There is simply no end to the secrets I have to keep,” Rex said.

  “What are you doing out here at this time of the morning, anyway?”

  “I got that number you were asking about.”

  He reached into his pocket and passed Tree a folded slip of paper. “You can reach this Devereaux in Montreal.”

  “Thanks, Rex. But you could have just called me.”

  “I know, but it was also a good excuse to take a walk on the beach, thinking about life, trying to get things straight in my head.”

  “If that’s the case, we might as well walk together,” Tree said.

  “We might at that,” Rex said. He fell into step as Tree allowed Clinton to pull him forward. “What’s the dog’s name?”

  “His name is Clinton. He’s a French hound.”

  They came out onto the beach. A tiny band of strollers, mostly male, their faces hidden behind floppy hats and baseball caps, disturbed the egrets fluttering away in alarm. Rex eyed Clinton crossing the sand, straining at his leash.

  “Clinton,” Rex said. “That’s a funny name for a French hound. Shouldn’t his name be Pierre?”

  “Maybe so. But it’s Clinton.”

  “After the president?”

  “Could be,” Tree said. “But don’t ask me what I’m doing with him.”

  “No? Why not?”

  “Put it this way, the less you know about any of this, the better.”

  “Funny how I end up asking you the same question over and over again.”

  “What question is that?”

  “Are you sure you know what the hell you are doing?”

  “I suppose I could ask you the same question,” Tree said.

  “Actually, I came here to apologize to you.”

  “Why would you have to apologize to me?”

  Clinton had paused to mark his spot at the remains of a pinkish seashell.

  “I should have told you about Kelly. I shouldn’t have sprung it on you like that. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “Rex, it doesn’t matter.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t know about that. I saw the look on your face when you walked into the Lighthouse last night.”

  “What look was that?”

  “A look that said it matters.”

  “Let me ask you this, Rex. Are you happy with Kelly?”

  “Never been happier,” Rex said.

  “Then that’s all that matters.”

  “I loved her a long time ago, you know,” Rex said, as though this was information of which Tree should have been aware.

  “You told me not to marry her,” Tree said.

  “That’s because I wanted her. I was jealous of you. I didn’t think the two of you were right for each other.”

  “Well, you were right about that.”

  “I’ve thought about her a lot over the years, never really stopped thinking, if you want to know the truth. So there I was back in Chicago, and you know how they have the local Emmy Awards, and I still get invited to some of the parties. I was in the Hilton at this party and Kelly arrived. She still looked great and of course had that charm going full blast. We started talking, and then we just never stopped talking.” He paused, then added, “I don’t want to be alone, Tree. I’m tired of it. I’m tired of being lonely all the time.”

  “I know, Rex.”

  “So here we are.”

  “Walking on the beach.”

  “With a dog I’m not supposed to know anything about.”

  “He belongs to a dead gangster.”

  “I thought the less I know the be
tter.”

  “That’s true, but I have to tell someone, so I’m telling you.”

  “I thought you were retired.”

  “I am.”

  “Then what are you doing with a dead gangster’s dog?”

  “I’m not sure,” Tree said. “I’m not sure how I get into the messes I get myself into—which may explain my marriage to Kelly. But as usual I’m in the mess, and now all I have to do is figure out how to get out of it.”

  “While you’re figuring it out, I just want you to know I’m still your friend and I’m right here for you,” Rex said.

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Tree said.

  “But you should also know I plan to marry your wife.”

  “Which one?” Tree asked.

  “The second one.”

  “That’s a relief,” said Tree. “I’d kind of like to stay married to my current wife.”

  11

  Freddie was in the shower when Tree got back to the house. He went into the kitchen and phoned the number on the slip of paper Rex had given him. After a couple of rings a voice came on the line and said, “Bonjour. Hello.”

  “Is this James Devereaux?”

  “Yes,” Devereaux said. “Who’s this calling?”

  “My name is Tree Callister, Mr. Devereaux. I’m a private detective down here on Sanibel Island.”

  “You’re kidding,” Devereaux said. “I know Sanibel. I would have thought the last thing they need there is a private detective.”

  “That’s what makes it so easy to be a private detective on Sanibel Island,” Tree said.

  Devereaux laughed and said, “What can I do for you, Mr. Callister?”

  “I’m working on something here, and I saw you on television yesterday talking about Vic Trinchera.”

  “The mob hit down there,” Devereaux said.

  “Are you certain that’s what it is?”

  “I don’t see how it could be anything else,” Devereaux said.

  “I guess I was surprised that he was a gangster. I met him briefly, and he didn’t exactly come across as Tony Soprano.”

  “Vic could make Tony Soprano look like a schoolboy,” Devereaux said. “I can tell you a little bit about him if it’ll help you.”

  “Sure,” Tree said.

  “Vic gained notoriety as a young man after thieves broke into the Montreal Museum of Fine Art. Three men used a ladder propped against a back wall to enter through the skylight. The museum was only partially alarmed due to repairs. The thieves got away with eighteen paintings, including a Rembrandt oil, Landscape with Cottages, valued at one million dollars.

  “They never recovered any of the stolen paintings,” Devereaux continued, “and Vic always denied he had anything to do with the robbery. Yet not long after that, Vic and his brother Sonny were able to acquire a Montreal funeral business. Using the funeral homes he acquired over the next few years as a front, Vic rose in mob circles, as did another young hood, Johnny Bravo, who, it is believed, was also in on the museum heist. You would have thought Vic, the older of the two and more experienced, would have taken over, but in fact it was Johnny who became the crime powerhouse and ran the Montreal Mafia until he was finally convicted on seventeen counts of money laundering and income tax evasion.

  “That’s when Vic finally had his chance at the big time,” Devereaux said. “While Johnny Bravo languished in jail, Vic became boss. He was very good at being bad. At the height of his power, he controlled the construction industry, bribed local and provincial politicians, and killed anyone who got in his way.”

  “It’s hard to believe that little guy in a fisherman’s cap ran a Mafia family,” Tree said.

  “Yes, well, appearances can be deceiving, particularly in the mob world. Vic’s reign ended a couple of years ago when Johnny got out of jail and wanted his old job back.”

  Devereaux explained that Vic fought without success against Johnny’s attempts to regain power. By now age was catching up to him. He was facing various health problems, including heart disease and a bout with colon cancer. When his wife and daughter were killed in a car explosion, Vic retreated to Miami, ostensibly so heart specialists could treat him.

  “Now he’s gone the way most of these guys go—slumped in a car pumped full of bullets. Of course, Vic always maintained he was an honest Montreal businessman who owned funeral homes. He knew nothing about organized crime and protested that he had never been convicted of anything, not even a parking ticket—and that was true enough.”

  “Did you ever hear anything about a dog?” Tree said.

  “A dog?”

  “Did Vic have a dog?”

  “If he did,” Devereaux said. “I never heard about it. What’s a dog got to do with anything?”

  ________

  When Freddie appeared in the kitchen, Clinton marched right over to her and demanded a good ear-rub, which she was glad to provide. Tree poured kibble into Clinton’s bowl and told Freddie about his early-morning encounter with Rex. “What did he say?”

  “He said he was going to marry my wife.”

  “Not me, I hope.”

  “No, I was worried about the same thing. But it’s an earlier wife.”

  “Kelly.”

  “That’s the one.” Tree put Clinton’s bowl on the floor. The dog abandoned his ear-rub and went over for an exploratory snort of his kibble.

  “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

  “I don’t know,” Tree said, truthfully. “I have no idea anymore what’s a good idea and what isn’t. Rex says he’s lonely, and he doesn’t want to be lonely any longer. Having been lonely in my life, I know how he feels. It’s no fun. If Kelly gives him what he needs, I’m happy for him.”

  “And supposing Kelly doesn’t feel the same way about Rex.”

  “There’s not a whole lot I can do about it one way or the other—except support my old friend, and that’s what I intend to do.”

  His cellphone rang. The LCD screen showed it was Edith Goldman.

  “I’ve been trying to get hold of you,” Tree said into the phone.

  “Where’s the dog?” Edith demanded.

  Tree tried not to look at Clinton or Freddie when he said, “I told you before, Edith. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Look, Tree, I’m under a lot of pressure here. I have to find that dog. Vic was supposed to hand over a dog. That was the whole point of your meeting.”

  “The whole point you never bothered to tell me about.”

  “I’m offering a ten-thousand-dollar reward for the recovery of that dog.”

  “You’re kidding. What’s so important about him?”

  “Just do this for me, will you, Tree? You’re a private detective, find the dog. I’ll pay you ten thousand dollars, no questions asked. Just find that dog.”

  The line went dead.

  Freddie gave him the look, never a good thing. “Why do I suspect we’re in more trouble,” she said.

  “You’re not in trouble,” Tree said. “If anyone’s in trouble, it’s me.”

  “No,” Freddie said vehemently. “That’s what you don’t seem to understand. You don’t get into trouble. We get into trouble.”

  “All I can say right now is that Edith is acting very strange, and I’m not certain why.”

  “Because her client is dead, and the private detective she hired is lying to her about a certain dog.”

  “For now, I’m hanging onto Clinton.” Tree said.

  “He’s not your dog.”

  “His owner is dead, and so for the time being the two of us are all Clinton has. If someone killed Vic Trinchera maybe they want to kill his dog, too. And I’m not going to allow that to happen.”

  “There is always the traditional way of dealing with this sort of situation,” Freddie said.

  “That would be the police,” Tree said.

  “It wouldn’t be the first time someone has gone to them,” Freddie said. “It has been done before.”

  “And what
do you suppose I would tell them?”

  “You would tell them that a Canadian gangster gave you a dog just before he was murdered. Now there are a number of people after said dog.”

  “Don’t forget I’ve already talked to the police.”

  “Talking to the Canadian police doesn’t count,” Freddie said.

  “She says it does.”

  “Not only did you lie to this Canadian so-called policewoman, but I highly doubt she has any jurisdiction here, and therefore is very limited when it comes to providing help.”

  Tree thought for a moment and then bent down to look at Clinton, now chomping away at his bowl of kibble. He called, “Clinton, come here. That’s a boy, come here.”

  Clinton lifted his head up as though offended anyone should bother him while he was eating.

  “What are you doing?” Freddie asked.

  “What’s the one thing we haven’t considered in connection with Clinton?” Tree said.

  “I don’t think we’ve actually considered much of anything. So far, all we’ve had is Tree Callister and his blind determination to hang onto this dog, no matter what.”

  “I’ll tell you what we haven’t done. We haven’t spent enough time considering why he is so important.”

  As though on cue, Clinton left his kibble unfinished to stand in front of Freddie and Tree, presenting himself for inspection.

  “I mean, Clinton,” Tree said to him, “you’re a great dog and everything, but what is it about you that makes Canadian Mounties and Montreal gangsters come looking for you?”

  “Maybe Clinton knows the secret code to something,” Freddie said. “You scratch his ears just the right way, and he barks out the code.”

  “I wish you could talk to us, Clinton,” Tree said, studying the dog closely. “It would be so much simpler if you could just tell us what everyone is looking for.”

  Clinton turned his head, as if baffled by what these humans were going on about. Tree reached forward and undid the yellow collar Clinton wore around his neck.

  “It contains a map to buried treasure,” Freddie said.

  “You read too many Hardy Boys mysteries,” Tree said.

  “Not me,” Freddie said. “I was strictly Nancy Drew.”