by Ron Base
Then, just as suddenly as she was there, Shay was gone in an explosion of metal as a big garbage truck, headed onto the island, smashed into the Streetfighter. In his sideview mirror, Tree could see the motorcycle lift into the air, so much twisted, gleaming yellow and black carbon fiber against the stark blue of the sky—and Shay, a black-clad rag doll still attached to her machine as it sailed in slow motion over the protective bridge railing.
“What was that?” Freddie, breathless in the back.
“It’s all right,” Tree said, slowing. “Everything is okay.”
“Quit saying that,” Freddie snapped, an uncharacteristic show of frustration and anger. “Because it’s not.”
He said, “Just hold on. We’re almost there.”
Not very reassuring, but closer to the truth.
43
Somehow, they were in the parking lot at the Bob Riggs Veterinary Clinic. Tree carefully lifted Clinton out, holding him in his arms, a limp, heaving body, completely, utterly trusting in his arms.
Tree murmured something to him, words, more reassurances, following Freddie into a reception area that featured paintings of cute dogs and cats. Two anxious-looking young women in green hospital smocks were ready to usher them along a hallway and into a tiny room containing a medicine cabinet and a stainless steel table.
“I need a blanket for him, something,” Tree said in a strained voice. “I can’t put him down on that metal.”
One of the women rushed away and returned with a padded blanket that she placed on the table. Tree lowered Clinton onto it. The dog looked up at him with pleading eyes. Freddie was right there, stroking Clinton’s coat.
Bob Riggs entered, iron gray hair, tanned face, the picture of the middle-age runner in perfect health. “Okay, let’s see what we have here,” Riggs said.
A stethoscope was brought into play, along with gentle prodding. Yes, Tree thought. A doctor with a stethoscope. A professional who knew what he was doing. Clinton was in good hands. He was going to be okay. Tree was certain of that.
Riggs stopped and looked up at Freddie and Tree, his features glum. Tree felt his stomach drop. Cold fear rose in him.
“I would have to do tests to be certain, but it looks like he’s suffered a stroke,” Riggs said.
“What does that mean?”
“I’m afraid there’s not a whole lot I can do for him,” Bob Riggs said.
“There must be something,” Tree said. The words sounded hollow and clichéd.
Riggs looked helplessly at Tree. “Letting him go. That’s probably the biggest favor we could do for him at this point.”
“Just like that?” The anguish caused his voice to break.
“I don’t know what else to tell you,” Riggs said.
Freddie held Clinton close and said, “He’s in pain, Tree. I can feel his whole body trembling.”
The tears streamed down Tree’s face. “I told him everything was going to be all right. I told him that. I promised him I would keep him safe—that I would protect him.”
“You’ve done that, my love,” Freddie said. “You’ve done all that and more.”
“So, now I kill him? After all we’ve been through, I kill him?”
“You don’t kill him,” Freddie said quietly. “You help him.”
She nodded at the doctor. He left the room. Tree took Freddie’s hand. “I can’t believe this,” Tree said.
“I know, darling, I know.”
Riggs returned with a syringe. Tree and Freddie held Clinton and took turns stroking his head. They told him how much they loved him. They told him again and again.
Riggs leaned over Clinton. He slipped the needle into the dog’s side.
When the final moment came, Clinton lifted up his fine head as if hearing something far away. Tree was certain he could see Clinton’s spirit rise out of him. Then Clinton’s body relaxed and his head dropped to the table. His eyes became lifeless.
And he was gone.
________
Freddie wrapped herself around Tree as they approached the car. “There are bullet holes in the Hellcat,” he said. “Rex is going to kill me.”
“Rex will understand,” Freddie said.
“Not when I tell him the rear windshield is also missing.”
The causeway was closed. They heard the news on the Hellcat’s radio as they sat in the vet’s parking lot. A terrible accident involving a motorcycle and a garbage truck. The truck driver was okay, but the female driver of the bike was reported dead. The name of the deceased had not been released by Sanibel Island police.
Tree turned off the engine and said he was in no shape to drive, anyway. They got out of the vehicle. Tree studied a huge dent in the side of the Hellcat. Where did that come from, he dimly wondered.
There was a park bench not far away. Freddie and Tree sat together and held hands and wept. Tree could not remember crying so hard. He was amazed by the depth of his grief. Freddie, as usual, was the stronger of the two; this was life, things happen. They had done their best. At least Clinton was with the people who loved him at the end. Think of that.
That only brought more tears. What a blubbering fool he was. Gangsters, crooked cops, female assassins, corpses—they all defeated him, left him feeling alone at the edge of a darkening world.
“There is light,” Freddie said, holding his hand tight in hers. “We’re the light, the two of us; what we have—the getting through bad stuff like Clinton’s death together.”
“I know,” Tree said. “But right now I feel like I’m on a road lined with tombstones.”
She reached out and took his hand and said nothing.
“What’s more,” Tree continued, “I’m afraid that when you hear the whole story of what happened you’ll be so angry you’re going to be finished with me.”
“My love,” she said, “I may get angry with you. But I am never finished with you.”
“There’s going to be a mess to deal with.”
“That’s okay. We’ll deal with it together. We stick together. We see it through—that’s our deal, and nothing breaks that deal.”
She stood and held her hand out to him. “Come on, Tree,” she said. “Let’s go home.”
He took her hand and stood. “Yes,” he said. “Let’s do that. Let’s go home.”
Afterword: The Real Clinton
Writing The Hound of the Sanibel Sunset Detective was an experience filled with joy and sadness. On the one hand, the novel allowed me to bring back to life Clinton, the beloved family member we lost at the age of fourteen in July 2013. To have him running happily on the beaches of Sanibel and Captiva Islands, loved and loving again, was an unexpected delight.
On the other hand, I was reminded constantly that this was only a story, that Clinton really was gone and even the most artfully fashioned words could never really bring him back. In the past five years, I have lost my mother and several of my dearest friends, people who were close and played an extraordinary role in my life.
But I must say, the loss of Clinton, our French hound, hit me harder than the loss of just about anyone else. He was my baby boy, the friend I had with me day in and day out, the one certainty in an uncertain life, always welcoming at the door with a shoe in his mouth, his recurring present for returning friends.
As he does for Tree and Freddie, Clinton brought us untold amounts of joy while he was alive. I have said many times that my wife, Kathy, and I would not have had a social life in Toronto, Montreal, or Milton, Ontario, without Clinton. Thanks to him, we met people and made friends who are still in our lives.
Clinton even slept with us. Try as we might to be firm, and not have him on the bed, we soon gave up trying to resist the irresistible. I don’t believe he ever recovered from his inability as he grew old to climb the stairs and be with us. The last year of his life, I never slept through the night, slipping constantly downstairs to console an upset dog who only wanted to be with his pals.
The novel, like the other four in the serie
s, is intended as an entertainment, and hopefully you, the reader, have not been disappointed.
However, writing the book also gave me the opportunity to explore within a fictional framework this deep, passionate love affair we have for our pets, how they manage to work their way into our lives and our hearts in ways we never could have imagined.
Any suggestion that they do not become family members is, of course, ludicrous. Only people who have not experienced pets would argue differently. Not only are they members of the family, they manage to become the most important members. We used to say, only half-jokingly, that Clinton didn’t live with us, we lived with Clinton.
The looming tragedy of all this, the cosmic joke the gods have chosen to play, is that our beloved pets do not stay long. We love and protect them in life, but then, all too soon, we must orchestrate their deaths. It is the heartbreak of our pet love—they must exit long before we do, leaving us shattered.
Kathy and I go on, we muddle through. But it’s not the same without Clinton. There remains an emptiness in the house every time we enter, and I doubt that will change any time soon. The memory of Clinton lingers always, the wonderful times we had with him, the ways in which he enriched our lives. Why, he even helped me write a book.
My unforgettable boy.
Acknowledgments
The usual suspects saved me repeatedly from myself: Kathy Lenhoff, first reader and incredible wife; David Kendall and Ray Bennett, longtime friends and hardnosed editors; Ric Base, brother extraordinaire, without whom these books would not be possible.
We introduce a couple of new members to the editorial team with this book. Susan Holly not only runs MacIntosh Books, one of the great independent bookstores on Sanibel Island, but is also a meticulous editor. Thanks to Susie and her eagle eyes, The Hound of the Sanibel Sunset Detective is a whole lot better than it would otherwise have been.
Ann Kornuta, a talented Milton, Ontario, artist, previously created the map of Sanibel-Captiva for the books. This time I asked her to bring Clinton to life for the cover. She’s done an extraordinary job capturing that mixture of the comic and the elegant that was so much a part of his personality.
Over the course of writing five books, I have shamelessly exploited family members and have not hesitated to do so again. Thanks to my son, Joel, enthusiastic reader, and daughter, Erin, whose own efforts to write a novel help to improve mine.
Many thanks to my nephew, Eric Base, and his partner, Lorena Inostroza, for introducing me to the delights and mysteries of Miami. Alicia Base is the world’s best sister-in-law, maintaining remarkable patience and good humor over the years in the face of repeated visits from a certain freeloading brother-in-law.
Finally, a word about Kim Hunter, aka The Driver. As regular readers know, such is my international renown that Kim drives me to Florida each November in his pickup truck. He still does not seem to understand that he must show more respect to a famous author, but I thank him, anyway.
Don’t Miss Previous Tree Callister Novels
The Sanibel Sunset Detective
Everyone on Sanibel Island, Florida, thinks former
newspaperman Tree Callister is crazy to become a private detective. The only client he can attract is a twelve-year-old boy who has seven dollars with which to hire Tree to find his mother.
The Sanibel Sunset Detective
Returns
The beautiful wife of a disgraced media mogul is certain her husband is having an affair. She hires Tree Callister to get the evidence. Then the mogul turns up dead on Sanibel Island, and not only is Tree’s client arrested, but he finds himself accused of being an accessory to murder.
Another Sanibel Sunset Detective
Private Detective Tree Callister’s marriage is in jeopardy, his son is in trouble, a guy with a machete threatens to cut off his hands, and a mysterious woman can’t decide whether she wants to kill him—or seduce him.
The Two Sanibel Sunset Detectives
Madi and Josh are smart kids. Except they don’t know what their father does for a living. That’s where Private Detective Tree Callister comes in. Tree sets out to find the truth only to encounter vengeful cops and a murderous female drug lord who decides that Tree is her next victim.
Coming Soon
The Four Wives of the Sanibel Sunset Detective
Tree Callister is blissfully married to his wife, Freddie Stayner. However, there are three former wives with whom he must deal. They have gathered on Sanibel Island where Tree is supposedly happily retired from being the island’s only private detective. All three wives are in trouble, and they expect Tree to get them out of it. The ensuing complications include fraud and murder—not to mention an increasingly unhappy fourth wife.
Contact Ron
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