Ron Base - Tree Callister 02 - The Sanibel Sunset Detective Returns

by Ron Base

  Only private detective Tree Callister on the job, sitting behind the wheel of the Beetle sipping a lukewarm café latte, listening to old rock and roll on the radio—something he swore he was going to stop doing any day now.

  The gates at the Traven house began to swing open. A Cadillac Escalade came out onto the roadway, headed south toward Sanibel Island. Tree caught a glimpse of Brand Traven behind the wheel.

  Tree swung the Beetle onto the road and sped after him. He kept Traven in sight as he turned onto Tarpon Bay Road and then onto Periwinkle Way. He drove as far as the Tahitian Mall.

  Tree watched Traven park his vehicle in the mall, get out, lock it, and then lumber up a flight of stairs to the walkway that ringed the building. He moved slowly, bent forward as though against a strong wind. He wore a short-sleeved shirt and rumpled linen slacks. He looked more like a retiree on a pension than an international media mogul who once hobnobbed with the world’s most powerful men and women.

  Traven entered a store at the end of the walkway, Adventures in Paradise. Tree parked and waited.

  The Beetle’s passenger door flew open, and a figure squeezed into the car’s interior. The Beetle could barely contain the hulking form of Ferne Clowers.

  She said, “You’ve got the wrong idea about me.”

  “What are you doing here?” Tree replied, sounding a lot calmer than he was.

  “I just wanted you to know—” her voice choked, as if overwhelmed by her emotions. “That thing up at Matlacha? That was a mistake, and I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  “Does that mean you’re not going to shoot me?”

  “No, I’m not,” she said definitively.

  “I can’t tell you how relieved I am to hear that,” Tree said.

  “I’m not a bad person, Tree,” she continued. “People have misconceptions about me.”

  “What misconceptions do they have, Ferne?”

  “That I am a really bad person.”

  “Maybe it has something to do with the way you act.”

  “I am trying to change my behavior, Tree, I truly am. More than anyone else, you helped me understand how important it is to make real changes in my life.”

  “But why did you want to shoot me in the first place?”

  “It was a mistake,” she repeated.

  “A mistake? Ferne, you lured me over to Matlacha. You had Slippery waiting on that shrimp boat with a gun. If it had gone off the way it was supposed to, I’d be dead.”

  “I can’t tell you how bad I feel about that.”

  Before he could do anything, she leaned over and kissed him hard on the mouth. He was so surprised he just sat there as she worked her lips against his. Then she tore herself away, tears rolling down her cheeks. She fumbled for the door handle.

  “Goodbye, Tree.”

  She was gone out the door, a big slump-shouldered thing showing more grace than he might have expected, hurrying across the parking lot.

  He sat still, not moving, his mouth tingling. He looked around the Tahitian Mall. Sometime during his encounter with Ferne, Brand Traven had left.

  He took out his cell phone. It seemed to take Cee Jay Boone forever to come on the line.

  “I’m not supposed to be talking to you,” she said.

  “I’m at the Tahitian Mall on Periwinkle Way,” Tree said. “Ferne Clowers was just here.”

  “There is no Ferne Clowers,” Cee Jay said. “No such name shows up on any police data base.”

  “Whoever she is, she got in my car just now.”

  “And she didn’t shoot you?” Cee Jay sounded disappointed.

  “Not this time, no. Look, the point is, she just left. If you get over here, maybe you can catch her.”

  For a couple of long beats, Cee Jay didn’t say anything. “Are you there?” Tree said.

  “Yes, I’m here. Did she say anything to you?”

  “She said it was a mistake, trying to kill me. She said she was sorry. Then she—” Tree’s voice trailed off.

  “Then she what?”

  “She kissed me.”

  “Okay, Tree, what are you doing here?” Cee Jay, exasperated.

  “Maybe the next time she shows up, she doesn’t feel like kissing me. Maybe the next time she’s inclined to shoot me again. This woman is crazy, and she’s got a gun, and for whatever reason, she’s stalking me.”

  “All right. Stay where you are. I’ll get a squad car over there.”

  8

  An hour after two uniformed Sanibel officers finally arrived to take his statement, Tree, still rattled by his encounter with Ferne Clowers, decided that was enough private detecting for one day, and drove home.

  Chris’s Dodge was not in the drive when Tree arrived at the house, but Kendra’s was. He went inside and got a Diet Coke out of the fridge. He stood in the kitchen taking a long, reviving swig, hearing a voice from the terrace. He crossed the kitchen and slid the glass door open.

  “I don’t give a damn what she says.” Kendra was saying. “Sasha, listen to me. This is bullshit. Okay? I’m still dealing with this. That’s part of the reason I’m here. All right, but let me talk to her.”

  Tree went out onto the terrace. Kendra, wearing a wisp of black thong, was stretched out on a chaise lounge, her iPhone pressed to her ear.

  “I’ll have to call you back.” She dropped the iPhone onto the chaise lounge and lifted herself up on one elbow, removing her sunglasses. She gave one of the lazy smiles that must have inspired Playboy readers all over the world. Or maybe it wasn’t the smile.

  “Hey,” Tree said.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” she said.

  “Mind what?”

  “Me being topless. Doesn’t bother you, Papa Tree?”

  “No, of course not.” Then he added dumbly: “It’s Florida.”

  She lay back on the lounge, replacing the sunglasses, her body glistening.

  “Are you through private detecting for the day, Papa Tree?” The way she said “Papa Tree” made him sound like the title character in a children’s book: The Adventures of Papa Tree.

  “Do you want anything?”

  “I’m fine, thanks. Are you going to sit out here?”

  “I’m just having a Diet Coke.” He held up the Coke can as if it was evidence he was telling the truth.

  “Doesn’t that stuff rot your teeth or kill brain cells or something?”

  “Don’t tell me that. It’s the only vice I have left.”

  She laughed, and he sat in an adjacent chair. “Where’s Chris?”

  “Out. Somewhere. I don’t know.”

  Tree sipped at his Coke, and made a point of studying the robot Pool Rover chugging around the edge of the swimming pool.

  “Are the two of you okay?”

  The question caused her to sit up and once again remove the sunglasses. “What would make you say that, Papa Tree?”

  “So the two of you are okay?”

  “Depends on your definition of ‘okay,’ I suppose. You know, we’re a married couple. We have our ups and downs.”

  “Chris seems to be drinking a lot,” Tree said.

  She sat back on the lounge, using a hand to fan herself. “Chris needs to get a grip. Everything’s going to be fine. We just have to get through this, that’s all.”

  “So something is wrong.”

  She turned her gaze toward him, blue eyes shining, delivering another of her killer smiles. “I can’t thank you enough for letting us stay with you and Freddie, Papa Tree. It’s good to get out of Chicago for a while, sit in the sun. Relax.”

  “Tell me something, Kendra,” Tree said. “Why do you call me Papa Tree?”

  “You don’t like it when I call you that?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Makes you feel old, huh?”

  “Yeah, I guess it does.”

  “You being a private detective and everything.”

  “It has nothing to do with that.”

  “Doesn’t it?” She swung he
r legs off the chaise lounge. He tried to keep his eyes averted. “I mean, isn’t that what the detective thing is about? Trying to beat age, stay young?”

  Tree said defensively, “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

  “But isn’t it?”

  “Kendra, you have a marvelous way of deflecting questions,” he said.

  “Do I? Or maybe it’s just that you’re not hearing what you want to hear.”

  “What do you think I want to hear?”

  “You don’t want to hear me calling you Papa Tree, that’s for sure.” She trained those blue eyes on him. “I see you looking at me. I know what you’re thinking.”

  “No Kendra,” he said firmly. “You don’t know what I’m thinking.”

  She grinned and then got up from the lounge, the Chicago goddess blazing in the sun. “Tree, I’m going inside for a shower. Great talking to you.”

  He watched her saunter off across the pool deck. Freddie was right. She did have a tramp stamp.

  A red, red rose.

  My love is like a red, red rose, Tree thought. Robbie Burns, wasn’t it?

  _________

  Chris didn’t come home for dinner. Kendra appeared unconcerned as they sat at the glass-topped table on the terrace and ate the orange roughy and asparagus Freddie had prepared. Kendra smiled at Freddie and said how good the fish was. She usually wasn’t that crazy about fish. But this was fantastic.

  Chris still had not appeared by the time Freddie and Tree went into their bedroom leaving Kendra watching David Letterman. “Are you worried?” Freddie asked once they were settled in bed.

  “I wish I knew what was wrong,” Tree said.

  “Maybe nothing is wrong. Other than a little old-fashioned marital stress.”

  “You think that’s what it is?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Does Kendra say anything to you?”

  “Kendra thinks she makes you nervous.”

  He thought about their unsettling afternoon encounter. She claimed to know what he was thinking, and she might be right—that made him nervous.

  Aloud, he said, “It is hard to know how to behave when you come home and find your daughter-in-law sunbathing topless, but that’s not the real problem.”

  “What’s the real problem?”

  “I wish I knew. Chris won’t talk about it and neither will she. She thinks they’ll get through all right; Chris isn’t so certain, I don’t think.”

  “Well, I’m going to sleep,” Freddie said. “I’ve got an early morning meeting. Incidentally, how did you do with Brand Traven today?”

  He thought of telling her about Ferne Clowers and then decided against it. “He went shopping.”

  “No mistress?”

  “Not so far.”

  She kissed him. “And quit worrying. Chris and Kendra will get it figured out.”

  He worried only until the moment he fell asleep.

  The next morning when he got up with Freddie, he padded into the kitchen and made her coffee. He looked out the kitchen window and saw Chris’s SUV in the drive. He had arrived home sometime during the night. Tree felt relieved—the father concerned about the late-arriving son, just like it was when Chris was a teenager.

  How little it changes, Tree thought. Chris was home and safe. Everything was all right. Chris and his wife were here for a visit. No more than that.

  9

  On Monday, Brand Traven drove to the Sanibel Island Bookshop. The owner, Hollie Schmid, later told Tree that Traven had purchased a copy of A Tale of Two Cities. Traven then drove to Jerry’s Foods Center where he bought ice cream at PocoLoco. Then he went home.

  Tuesday, Tree followed him off island to the Tanger Mall. He visited the Ralph Lauren store and emerged with two shopping bags. He then went into the Nike store, followed by a visit to the Famous Footwear Outlet.

  Wednesday, he spent an hour browsing at MacIntosh Books and Paper. The owner, Susie Holly, refused to tell Tree what the media mogul purchased. At the Lazy Flamingo around one o’clock, Traven sat at the bar eating a grouper sandwich and drinking a Diet Coke. He spoke to the bartender, but otherwise kept to himself. None of the customers appeared to recognize their infamous luncheon companion. Traven drove home at three o’clock.

  Thursday, he never left the house. Friday, Elizabeth Traven called Tree and said she wanted to see him. They agreed to meet at one o’clock, at the Edison Restaurant on McGregor Boulevard.

  Tree waited in the dark-bricked lobby beneath a formal black and white portrait of Thomas Edison. He decided the old man looked uncomfortable in his formal getup, presiding over herds of smartly dressed young women who drank free vodka at the Edison every Wednesday night, and who doubtless challenged the old man’s conservative view of things.

  Elizabeth Traven made her entrance a few minutes later, looking unusually pale. There were dark circles beneath her eyes. Tree wondered if she was getting enough sleep. “I’ve been away,” she said curtly as if that explained her exhausted appearance. She did not choose to tell him where.

  They sat on the porch overlooking the Fort Myers Country Club. Elizabeth wore a linen jacket over a white blouse tucked into carefully faded jeans. She ordered a gin and tonic from the waiter. Tree said, “You’re in your Thomas Edison phase.”

  She looked at him with tired eyes.

  “The Ford and Edison Winter Estates. Now the Edison restaurant.”

  “I told you. I was going to write a book about Edison.”

  “I thought it was Ford.”

  She waved a dismissive hand. “Whatever.” The waiter arrived with her gin.

  She took a long sip that had the effect of putting a little more color in her cheeks. “So what have you got for me, Mr. Callister?”

  “Not much.”

  She frowned. “Not much?”

  “You’re in the house with him, you must know.”

  “I told you, I’ve been away,” she said. “That’s why I don’t know what my husband’s been up to. That’s why I hired you.”

  “He went shopping, that’s as interesting as it’s gotten.”

  She gave him a sharp look. “Shopping? Where did he go shopping?”

  “A number of places around the island.”

  “Name one.”

  “Okay. The first day he drove to the Tahitian Gardens mall. A place called Adventures in Paradise.”

  “What did he buy?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “That’s not much help.”

  “What do you expect me to do? Stop him and demand to see what he’s carrying?”

  “I expect results,” she snapped.

  When he didn’t respond, she sighed and pursed her mouth.

  “Understand this about Brand,” Elizabeth said. “Brand does not shop. He never shops.”

  “Well, he was shopping the other day. Maybe he needed a pair of socks. They’ve got nice socks at Adventures in Paradise. I don’t know.”

  “He doesn’t need socks. He doesn’t need anything. At least nothing you buy in a store.”

  Tree looked at her more closely. “You don’t really think he’s having an affair, do you?”

  She said, “I think he’s trying to kill me.”

  Tree gave her a long look before he said, “Are you serious?”

  “Of course I’m serious. Why would I say something like that if I wasn’t serious?”

  Tree lowered his voice to ensure no one at the nearby tables overheard him. “You really think your husband is trying to kill you.”

  “No, Mr. Callister. I’m just making it up because I want to have lunch with you.”

  “Why? Why would he want you dead?”

  “Presumably he doesn’t like me anymore,” she said with a shrug, as if all disliked wives were subject to murder plots.

  “Come on, Mrs. Traven.”

  “Why does anyone kill anyone? I haven’t a clue. The fact is my husband wants to kill me.”

  “Then you should go to the police.”

&n
bsp; She rolled her eyes. “No police. Not for the moment. I prefer to do it this way. You keep an eye on him until we know what he’s up to. If it turns out I’m right, then we go to the police.”

  “If you really think he’s going to hurt you, Mrs. Traven, you shouldn’t take any chances.”

  She gave him a sweet smile. “I’ve got you to protect me, Mr. Callister.”

  “If you’re messing with me, Mrs. Traven, I will walk away from this,” Tree said.

  She reacted with a dismissive snort. “Don’t be ridiculous. You won’t do anything of the sort. Why should you? You’re being well paid. You don’t have any other clients. What’s more, if you did walk away and something happened to me, how would you feel?”

  “Guilt-stricken for the rest of my life, I’m sure,” Tree said.

  “There you go. I’ll phone you in a couple of days for an update.”

  She started up. “You haven’t finished your drink,” he said.

  Elizabeth gave him a dark look before she marched away.

  10

  That was the same year I dated Joan Crawford.” Rex Baxter was holding court at the end of the bar at the Lighthouse Restaurant.

  One of his young listeners said, “Who’s Joan Crawford?”

  “Big Hollywood movie star in the thirties and forties,” Todd Jackson said.

  The young listener looked at him blankly.

  “Of course, she wasn’t so big when I met her,” Rex said. “She was older then, but she still looked great. I was a kid, just arrived in Hollywood. It was the last gasp of the studio system. Universal Studios had hired a bunch of us youngsters to be part of a talent program, hoping to turn us into movie stars. Clint Eastwood was in it, but they threw him out. Go figure.

  “I met Joan one night at Chasen’s. She saw me at the bar and came over. We got to talking. A little older, a few wrinkles, but she had great skin. I remember that about her. Soft, white skin. Hell, she was Joan Crawford. I was dazzled.”

  “Joan Crawford,” said the young listener, as though attempting to twist his tongue around a foreign name.