The Hound of the Sanibel Sunset Detective (24 page)

The street was empty. He reached the Hellcat and got in and started the engine. As he drove off, he tried not to think of Max Hesselgesser hunched on a bed, his hands bound behind him, pieces of his head scattered across the room, victim of the beautiful, deadly Shay Ostler.

36

T
ree called Rex on his cell on the way into Fort Myers.

“Where are you?” Rex demanded.

“Sorry. I got delayed in Miami.”

“I’m at a Kiwanis dinner, so I couldn’t stick around. But Kelly’s got the dog and is waiting for you at the office.”

“Thanks, Rex.”

“Just hurry up and get over there.”

Kelly was waiting in Rex’s office with Clinton when Tree finally reached the Chamber. Kelly wore a white blouse and pink shorts that set off the newly bronzed contours of her body. Island life was agreeing with her. She unhooked the leash so Clinton could jump up excitedly on Tree, who welcomed the attention and enthusiastically rubbed Clinton’s ears.

“Thanks, sorry I’m late,” Tree said.

“Hopefully, you were out there working on our story,” Kelly said.

“Something like that.”

“It wasn’t so bad,” Kelly said. “I’m not much of a dog person. But it’s hard not to like this guy—particularly since he seems to be such an important part of our story.”

Tree just looked at her.

“You’ll notice I said
our
story,” Kelly added.

“I noticed,” Tree said.

“Tree, I don’t like to sound desperate, but I do need this.”

“I know that’s what you’re saying, Kelly. But I think you’re confusing want with need.”

“Please, Tree, don’t make me say things I don’t want to say.” Kelly rose from the chair. “You and I have a deal, so let’s both make sure we live up to it. I think we owe our past lives that much, don’t you?”

“What does the past have to do with any of this?”

“You think it doesn’t?”

“No.”

“You owe me, Tree.”

“For what? Kelly, you left me, remember?”

“I left you because you were a lousy husband who didn’t give a damn about anything except his job and drinking with the guys.”

Tree swallowed the bile he felt rising in his throat and said tightly, “You and I obviously have different perspectives.”

“What are you saying? You weren’t a lousy husband?”

Tree took a deep breath. “Okay, here’s the thing. I need the next twenty-four hours to get this resolved.”

Kelly nodded and said, “All right. I guess I don’t have much choice, do I?”

She reached down and stroked Clinton’s head. She seemed to be wrestling with what she was going to say next.

Tree said, “Okay, what am I missing?”

“Something I should tell you,” she said. “Or maybe it’s what I shouldn’t tell you.”

“What is it, Kelly?”

“It’s Rex. He doesn’t want me to say anything. He says it’s no big deal.”

“What’s no big deal?”

“The surgery.”

Tree felt his stomach drop. “What kind of surgery?”

“He’s been complaining about being tired. He said he was feeling tightness in his chest. I went through the same thing with my second husband, so I pushed him into the car and drove him to his doctor. Turns out he needs a heart bypass. Sooner rather than later.”

“Thanks for telling me, Kelly—and thanks for making him go to the doctor. He probably wouldn’t have done it, if you weren’t here.”

“Now he’s procrastinating about the surgery, and he shouldn’t. The sooner they operate on him, obviously, the better.”

“Should I talk to him?”

“He doesn’t want you to know.”

“Well, now I know,” Tree said.

“He’s not going to be very happy with me.”

“Rex is like most men, willing to forgive you anything.”

She tried on a wry smile. “Does that include you, Tree?”

“Hey, I was the lousy husband, remember?”

“Talk to him,” Kelly said. “Maybe he’ll listen to you.”

37

W
hat to tell Freddie when he arrived home?
Hi, honey. I found another dead body, but this time I didn’t phone the police because it would disrupt the ridiculous plan I have hatched.
That story certainly would not fly. But in failing to tell it, Tree was once again lying by omission—a specialty of his, honed since becoming a private detective.

He and Freddie spent a several hours returning their disrupted house to some semblance of order, Clinton trailing around after them, endlessly curious about what they were up to, making sure he was never left alone. They were just thinking of turning in for the night when Cee Jay Boone called.

“Max Hesselgesser was assigned to the Miami office of the FBI. He’s been there for the past six years. However, a couple of weeks ago, he retired,” she said.

“So he’s not an agent any longer,” Tree said.

“No, and I gather he left under a cloud.”

“What kind of cloud?”

“No one would talk over the phone, but something happened.”

“What about Shay Ostler?”

“Nothing about her. Sure that’s her real name?”

“I’m not sure of anything. Thanks, Cee Jay.”

“Hold on. Tell me how Max Hesselgesser fits into Edith Goldman’s murder.”

“I’ll know more about that tomorrow,” Tree said.

“Don’t jerk me around, Tree.”

“I’ll be in touch,” Tree said.

Tree ended the call before turning to the unhappy Freddie. “What are you up to?” she demanded.

Tree gazed down at Clinton, who looked back, turning his head as though to ask, “What’s up?”

“What about it, Clinton? What should I do next?”

“I should have known,” Freddie said, sounding unhappier than ever.

Clinton padded over to Tree and leaned against his leg, lowering his head to make it easier for Tree to pet him. He made small sounds of contentment.

“Maybe we’ve been looking at this the wrong way,” Tree said.

“What do you mean?”

“Something Crimson said to me. He said it wasn’t the dog everyone was after.”

“Then why is everyone after the dog?”

Tree undid Clinton’s collar and held it up.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“It’s got to be the collar,” Tree said.

“We’ve looked and looked at that fool collar,” Freddie said. “How can we be missing anything?”

Instead of answering, Tree went into the garage, returning with a screwdriver.

“What are you doing?” Freddie asked.

Tree positioned the collar on the kitchen counter, and began to dig the flat edge of the screwdriver into one of the metal flowers. He finally pried one loose. It flipped away, revealing a hollow metal cylinder. There was nothing inside the hollow.

Tree did the same thing with a second flower and then a third. Three quarters of an hour later, he had pried off all the flowers, colored metal pieces littering the countertop. There was nothing inside any of the hollows.

“What did you think was going to be in there?” Freddie said.

“I don’t know,” Tree said. He looked at her and shrugged. “Diamonds,” he said sheepishly.

“Diamonds? You thought the dog was carrying around a collar full of diamonds?”

“I may have been grasping at straws.”

Clinton nuzzled his leg. Tree reattached the collar. Freddie got to her feet and yawned. “I’m going to bed,” she announced. “Are you coming?”

“In a while.”

“Tree, you’re not going to solve this tonight.”

“I know that, but tomorrow I’m going to have to either give up Clinton to three people who don’t have his best interests at heart, or phone the police, who will take him away.”

“I wish I could think of something, my love,” Freddie said. “But right now I can hardly keep my eyes open.” She came over and planted a kiss on his lips. “Don’t stay up all night.”

“No,” he said distractedly.

Freddie slipped away. Tree drifted onto the terrace. Clinton followed and lay on his side beside Tree’s chair, his shallow breathing the only sound in the night.

Tree sat thinking. But thinking about what? How stupid he was to leave Max Hesselgesser lying dead on a bed in Miami? How ill-equipped he was to deal with any of this? Yes, something like that. He forced himself to concentrate on Clinton. He reached down and petted Clinton’s torso. The dog lifted his head appreciatively, stretched his long legs, and then lay still again.

“
It’s not the dog they’re after.
” The gospel according to the late Crimson.

Tree sat up.

If it wasn’t the dog.

Maybe. Just maybe.

It was
where
the dog could take you.

38

Y
ou sound like hell,” Rex said when Tree phoned him.

“That’s because I haven’t slept,” Tree said.

“At your age, you should be getting at least eight hours a night. Mind you, I’m not going to get that tonight. I’ve just finished with the Kiwanis dinner. Normally, I would drive myself home. But a certain so-called friend has stolen my Hellcat.”

“Your so-called friend appreciates your sacrifice, Rex. Is Kelly picking you up?”

“She’s on her way, so not to worry,” Rex said. “What’s up? Have you totaled my car?”

“Not yet,” Tree said, “but I’m going to need it a little longer.”

“Mind if I ask what’s going on?”

“I was about to ask you the same question.”

“You’ve been listening to Kelly, I suppose.”

“She’s worried about you. So am I.”

“I’m okay.”

“Are you?”

“I’m probably in better shape at the moment than you are.”

“No argument there. But if you’re supposed to have an operation, Rex, then you should have the operation.”

“It’s not an operation. That’s old school. They call it a procedure.”

“Okay. Have the procedure. After I’m gone, I need someone here to extol my virtues.”

“It may take me a while to figure out exactly what those virtues are.”

“You can do that while you’re being operated on.”

Rex said, “How did you and I ever become friends?”

“You took me in out of the rain, fed me, watered me, and raised me as your own.”

“I didn’t do much of a job.”

“Which is why I need you to stick around. So you can continue to correct and improve my behavior.”

For a time, neither man said anything. Then Tree said, “I love you, you old coot.”

Rex said, “Don’t call me an old coot.”

________

Tree was approaching the outskirts of Miami, trying to keep his eyes open, when his cellphone sounded. He thought it was Freddie, but to his surprise it was Jim Devereaux calling from Montreal.

“Did I wake you up?” Devereaux asked.

“In fact, I’m driving to Miami,” Tree said.

“At this time of night?”

“The Sanibel Sunset Detective Agency never sleeps.”

“Look, it’s probably nothing. But I’ve been working my contacts ever since we last talked.”

“Much appreciated,” Tree said.

“The name you gave me, Shay Ostler, it doesn’t ring anyone’s bell. But the fact she was hooked up with André Manteau, Le Manteau Noir—the Black Coat—leader of The Devil’s Headsmen, a legend in Quebec biker circles, that got several people to thinking.”

“Thinking about what?”

“Again, this is probably nothing. But there are stories about this teenager from Outremont, a very tony part of French-speaking Montreal, a stunner who hooked up with Manteau and the Devil’s Headsmen, became one of them—someone willing to break an egg.”

“Break an egg. I’ve heard that before.”

“In the parlance of Montreal mobsters, you break an egg, you kill someone.”

“This kid killed people?”

“She became a very good killer, apparently. A young woman who enjoyed her work. They called her La dame des trois, the Lady of the Three, because she liked to shoot her victims three times.”

“Any idea what happened to her?”

“I’m not even sure if La dame des trois exists. Could be she’s nothing more than an urban myth, la beauté qui est une bête—the beauty who’s a beast.”

“Except the beast killed someone tonight.”

That gave Devereaux pause. “You know this for certain?”

“I’m afraid so,” Tree said.

Devereaux issued a low whistle over the phone. “That might explain what happened to two of my favorite Montreal gangsters.”

“Not to mention a lawyer and an FBI agent,” Tree said. “But if she killed André Manteau, then who is she working for?”