The Hound of the Sanibel Sunset Detective (5 page)

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

W
hen 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.”

“Haven’t you heard?” Edith’s voice sounded tense.

“Heard what?”

“They found Vic’s body yesterday.”

Tree felt his stomach sinking. “Where did they find him?”

“They found him in his car on the side of the highway in Miami.”

He decided to play dumb. “What was it? A heart attack?”

“It was his heart all right. Someone put a bullet in it.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I am,” Edith said. “They actually put three bullets in it.”

Tree had a flash of the Cadillac Escalade on the side of Coral Way. The police officer picking up the Greek fisherman’s cap.

“Tree?” Edith’s insistent voice. “Are you still there?”

“Yes, I’m still here, Edith.”

“The dog,” she said.

“The dog?”

“What did you do with Vic’s dog?”

Clinton, noticing Tree was no longer following, had paced back. He stopped a few feet in front of Tree, tail twitching. He cocked his head as though to inquire why Tree wasn’t running.

Before he could even think about lying, he lied: “What dog?”

“What do you mean ‘what dog?’” Edith sounded even more exasperated. “Didn’t Vic give you his dog to look after?”

“That’s why you sent me down there? So I could babysit a dog?”

“Tree, did he give you the dog or not?”

“No,” Tree said.

“I’m going to have to call you back,” Edith said.

“Edith, don’t hang up. Tell me what’s going on.”

Edith hung up.

Tree put his phone away and looked at Clinton. “What have I just done?” he said to the dog. “I just lied through my teeth about you, and I’m not sure why I did it.”

Clinton responded with a bark, and then gave Tree another inquiring look, as if curious as to what his pal thought of his bark. Then he turned and resumed his inspection along the beach.

“What’s even worse,” Tree said, calling after him, “I’m talking to a dog.”

Clinton put his head down and began sniffing at the surf.

“Did you hear me?” Tree yelled. “I’m talking to a dog!”

6

B
y the time Tree arrived back at the house with Clinton, he was beginning to have serious second thoughts about what he had told Edith. Vic Trinchera was dead, shot to death shortly after he drove away from Tree. Not only was he in possession of the dead man’s dog, he also had important information pertaining to the crime—namely, the three characters he had overheard at the hotel discussing what now appeared to be Vic’s impending demise.

He should phone Edith back. He should talk to the police.

But he did neither of those things.

And he still wasn’t quite certain why—until he looked at Clinton and Clinton looked back at him with those big sad eyes as if to say, “You’re it, pal. You’re all I’ve got. So you have to protect me.”

Tree shook himself back to reality. Stop this, he thought to himself. Clinton was a
dog
. He wasn’t really saying anything.

Really.

But then again, he was. In his own way.

Tree turned on the television and gritted his teeth through the inane puffery of the
Today
show, waiting for the local news on the half hour. Vic Trinchera’s death led off the newscast.

The youthful news anchor said, “Canada’s Mafia wars apparently have spilled over into South Florida with the murder yesterday of wealthy Montreal mortician Victor Trinchera. Police say that Trinchera for many years was the powerful, ruthless head of a Montreal crime family.”

Video footage showed the Cadillac with a figure slumped in the front seat. Three bullet holes in the passenger side window were clearly visible.

“Trinchera’s body was found yesterday afternoon on Coral Way not far from his home in Coral Gables. He had been shot three times. Police don’t have any suspects. We reached Canadian crime specialist and author James Devereaux in Montreal.”

A blond-haired professorial-looking man appeared on the screen. The news anchor said, “Thanks for speaking to us this morning. We appreciate it. Tell us about this Vic Trinchera.”

Devereaux arranged an expression on his face that one adopts for television—an expression that says you know what you are talking about. “Trinchera had recently been involved in a feud with his rival, Johnny Rizzo, known as Johnny Bravo,” Devereaux said. “You have to believe this hit is related to their feud. If that’s the case, you may not have seen the last of Canadian gangster violence in Miami.”

“Jim, we don’t usually think of gangsters when we think of Canada. What gives, anyway?”

“We’ve got bad guys here, just like you,” Devereaux said. “Montreal has a particularly rich history of organized crime, not just the Mafia but biker gangs, too.”

“Now they’re coming down here?”

“Gangsters are like most Canadians, they like the Florida weather in winter. What’s a bit surprising is that they’ve started to kill each other down there.”

The anchor turned to his female co-anchor, a woman with shimmering blond hair. The anchor said, “Isn’t that great, Merilee? As if we didn’t have enough trouble with our own gangsters right here in Miami, now we’ve got the Canadians shooting one another.”

“I thought Canadians were polite, ate peameal bacon, and watched hockey,” Merilee said. Then she announced to the camera: “Canadian bad guys stay home.” She smiled, displaying the world’s whitest teeth. “Only kidding. We love Canadians, of course!”

“Except the ones with guns,” the young anchor said. “And what’s peameal bacon?”

“I’m not sure, but Canadians eat it,” said Merilee.

Terrific, Tree thought. He had gotten himself mixed up with a Canadian gangster—a dead Canadian gangster. What was Edith thinking?

The anchors did not linger on peameal bacon or bad news. The weather was a more reliable topic on local newscasts. A hot, sunny weekend was in the offing. Whatever bad things happened, they would happen in the sunshine.

Clinton bounced up onto the sofa and eased himself down beside Tree, laying his head on Tree’s lap. “Are you a Mafia dog, Clinton?” Tree asked. “Is that what you are? What kind of trouble have you landed me in?”

If Clinton could answer, Tree reasoned, the dog might point out that he hadn’t landed Tree in trouble. Tree had done that all by himself.

As usual.

“Can you even say Mafia anymore?” he said to Clinton. “Is that politically correct? Maybe I should not use the word Mafia. Maybe you are an organized-crime dog.”

Clinton regarded him with baleful eyes—the long-suffering organized-crime dog in need of affection. Tree gave him a pat. Clinton once again began playfully biting at the ends of his ears.

He thought about phoning Edith back, and then decided against it. As much as he wanted to ask her what she was doing mixed up with a Canadian gangster, he didn’t want to tell her any more lies than he already had. He was supposed to be out of the business of lying. He hadn’t lasted a day before he was right back at it.

His phone sounded. Fearing it was Edith, he pulled the phone from his pocket and checked the readout. It wasn’t Edith, but he didn’t recognize the number.

“Is this Walter Tremain Callister?” An official-sounding female voice.

“Who is this?”

“Yes, well, is this Walter Tremain Callister?” The female voice sounded less certain of itself.

“Yes,” Tree said. “Who’s calling?”

“Good, so you are Mr. Callister.” A pause. “Mr. Callister, I’m Sergeant Melora Spark . . .”