The Hound of the Sanibel Sunset Detective (6 page)

“Sergeant? Sergeant of what?”

“Of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.”

“The what?” Tree said.

“The RCMP,” Melora Spark said. “That is the acronym for the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. I am a member of Canada’s national police force.”

“Sergeant Spark, is it?”

“That’s correct, Mr. Callister.” The voice in identifying itself had regained some authority.

Tree said, “It’s not every day I get a call from a Canadian police officer. What can I do for you?”

“Do for me? Okay, what I would like, I would like to have a word with you if I might.”

“What about?”

Sergeant Spark said, “What about? Yes, well, I would prefer not to talk about this on the phone. Do you mind—would it be possible to come to your house so we could talk there?”

He looked at Clinton contentedly attacking his ears. The last thing he wanted right now was a lot of fumbling around trying to explain the dog. “First of all, I’d like to know what this is about,” Tree said.

“What it’s about? Okay, it’s in connection with a case I’m working on. As I told you, I would prefer not to discuss it on the phone.”

“Tell you what,” Tree said. “Why don’t we meet at the Bubble Room? That’s just around the corner from where I am, and right now a little more convenient. Do you know where it is on Captiva?”

“The Bubble Room. That’s fine. I can find it, Mr. Callister. Shall we say in one hour?”

“An hour? You must be in a hurry.”

“Hurry? Yes. I have a limited amount of time here. Can we meet in an hour?”

“I’ll meet you at the main entrance,” Tree said.

“That’s fine,” Melora Spark said, and hung up.

Tree looked down at Clinton. “Now what? In addition to being a French hound and an organized-crime dog, you are also a Canadian. So what is it, Clinton? Are the Canadians after you as well?”

Clinton continued to nip at his ears, apparently having the time of his life.

Tree was still holding the phone when it vibrated in his hand. Clinton stopped biting his ears His head jerked up. Tree grinned. “Sorry about this, Clinton. The phone didn’t ring nearly so much before I retired.”

“How’s retirement?” Rex Baxter said. “Are you bored out of your mind yet?”

“What? You can’t live without me?”

“Are you kidding? You’ve been gone less than forty-eight hours and already tourism is up.”

“I think you miss me.”

“Not me. Are you coming to Fun Friday tonight?”

“Right, it is Friday, isn’t it?”

“See? Already you’re losing track of time. That’s not a good sign, Tree. Are you coming or not?”

Tree looked at Clinton. “I don’t know. I hadn’t thought much about it.”

“Do me a favor and be there, okay?”

“Any particular reason?”

“There’s someone I want you and Freddie to meet.”

7

T
he Bubble Room was an island landmark. A maze of small rooms strung with Christmas tree lights, crammed with framed reminders of a pop culture era when Roy Rogers and Buster Crabbe and Gordon Scott (Tarzan of the movies when Tree was a kid) ruled, crowded with customers who could still recognize a languid Kim Novak or an intense Fred MacMurray, a somber Claudette Colbert (hand held against her heart) or recall when Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis co-starred in
Sailor Beware
and weren’t surprised to see William Holden in a forgotten piece of nonsense called
Boots Malone
.

Tree studied the photographs in the Bubble Room’s foyer. None of the staff knew who any of these people were, of course. Everyone was too young. They barely recognized the youthful John Travolta in
Saturday Night Fever
.

The front door opened and in came a slim, frazzled-looking woman, blond hair pulled back into a pony tail, the austere air of the spinsterish grade ten teacher who gave you detentions because you didn’t have your English grammar homework done. Her mouth grimaced anxiously as she looked around. When she spotted Tree, she said, “There you are. Mr. Callister.”

“Melora Spark?”

A quick, nervous smile. “Sergeant Melora Spark.”

A frilly white blouse and unfashionable powder blue slacks did nothing to take away from the uneasy sense Tree experienced in high school when he hadn’t done his homework. Only the open-toed sandals displaying small, beautifully pedicured feet provided any fashion sense.

Tree shook the pale hand she offered and said, “Sergeant Spark.”

Sergeant Spark’s eyes—the same color as her slacks, Tree noticed—darted around the foyer, taking in the Christmas tree lights, the walls of photos. “My goodness, this is quite a place, isn’t it?” she said.

“There’s nothing quite like it,” Tree said.

“No, I suppose not.”

A hostess led them to a corner table in one of the back rooms and presented them with menus the size of the tablets in Cecil B. DeMille’s
The Ten Commandments
, a movie Tree had yet to find represented on the walls of the Bubble Room.

Melora Spark glanced perfunctorily at the menu and then put it to one side. She cleared her throat and said, “Thank you for agreeing to meet me, Mr. Callister.”

“I don’t want to start this off on the wrong foot or anything,” Tree said.

Sergeant Spark’s mouth produced more grimaces, and those blue eyes looked abruptly worried. “Wrong foot? What wrong foot?”

“Do you mind if I see some identification?” Tree said.

A waitress in a khaki Boy Scout uniform arrived, all smiles and brisk energy. “Hi, there folks. I’m Kim, and I’m your server today. Have you been to the Bubble Room before?”

Tree admitted that he had, while Melora Spark looked pained as she fumbled in her shoulder bag.

“What can I get you folks to drink?” Kim asked.

Melora blinked a couple of times and asked for a glass of water. Tree ordered a Diet Coke. “Okay, folks. Let me give you a couple of minutes with the menu, and I’ll be back with your drinks.”

Kim departed and Sergeant Spark slid a silver badge across the table in Tree’s direction. The badge was emblazoned with a crest. Above the crest was the word POLICE. Beneath the crest: RCMP and GRC.

What’s GRC stand for?” Tree wanted to know.

“Gendarmerie Royale du Canada,” she promptly replied. “That’s French.”

“I see,” Tree said.

“Canada being a bilingual country.”

“Yes, of course.”

She cleared her throat again and said, “Maintiens le droit. That’s French, too. Defending the law. Our motto, you see.”

“Is that what brings you to Florida? You’re here defending the law?”

She flashed a quick, nervous smile. “That’s a joke, right? I understand that. I’m trying to loosen up about these things. You know, ‘get the joke,’ as they say.”

“I’m just so funny,” Tree said, deadpan. “The point being, Sergeant Spark, I’m not sure how I can help you.”

“That’s the thing, you see, you can help me. That’s why I asked to meet you.”

Kim the server arrived with their drinks. “Have you folks had a chance to look at the menu yet?”

“Give us a few more minutes, will you, Kim?”

“Let me know when you’re ready to order.”

Tree addressed Melora. “Are you hungry?”

“No. My stomach’s all funny. I didn’t know we would be eating. I don’t usually eat lunch.” Her hands fluttered over the menu as if trying to levitate it.

“Okay, how am I supposed to help the Mounties,” Tree said.

“It’s the dog.”

Tree looked at her. “The dog?”

Kim returned, her youthful face lighting with hope. “You folks ready yet?”

Tree sighed and looked at the menu. “What about you? Sure you don’t want something?”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

The menu contained luncheon dishes such as Gone Fishin’ and Hook, Line and Sinker, and Anything Grows. Tree chose the Errol Fin.

“That’s the grouper filet,” Kim said, nodding approvingly and then went off.

Tree said, “You said something about dogs.”

Melora made a face. “I don’t like dogs. I have real issues with dogs.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Tree said.

She leaned forward speaking in a low voice so that the nearby diners couldn’t overhear. “Mr. Callister, the Force is aware that you met with Victor Trinchera shortly before his death.”

“What force?” Tree said.

“That’s what the Mounted Police call themselves. The Force.”

“Okay. How do you know I met with anyone?”

“We have information to that effect,” she said in her police-officer-giving-testimony voice. “So what about it, Mr. Callister? What were you doing with Vic Trinchera the morning he died?”

Tree said, “My lawyer sent me to see him.”

“Why would your lawyer do that?”

“She said he needed to talk to a private detective.”

“Are you a private detective?”

“No, I’m not.”

She looked flustered again, and spent more time clearing her throat. “Then I don’t understand. Why would your lawyer send you to him?”

“She thought I was a private detective.”

“But you are not.”

“I’m retired.”

Sergeant Spark paused before she said, “I see. But you went down there, anyway.”

“That’s right.”

“Did you know who Mr. Trinchera was?”

“You mean did I know he was a gangster? I had no idea.”

“He didn’t tell you when you got to his house?”

“He didn’t tell me anything. He left shortly after I arrived.”

“Yes. Okay. And what did you do?”

“There was nothing else to do. I left.”

“What about the dog?”

“I thought you didn’t like dogs.”

“I don’t like them, but Vic did.”

“There was no dog.”

“You should know, Mr. Callister, you should know that Victor Trinchera was one of the top Mafioso in Montreal. He ran the town while his boss, Johnny Bravo, was in prison. However, when Mr. Bravo was released last year, he naturally wished to resume his position as head of the family. Vic Trinchera appeared to go along with this, but in fact was working against Mr. Bravo behind the scenes, trying to bring him down.”

“So then what was Vic doing in the Miami area?” Tree asked.

“Supposedly, he was here to have open-heart surgery, but in fact it was something else entirely.”

“Which was?”

“In order to avoid going to jail for an art theft he committed as a young man, Vic Trinchera agreed to work with us as an informant. He came to Miami to make peace with Johnny Bravo and hopefully get himself reinstated in the family. That way he would be more valuable to us.”

“That didn’t work out so well,” Tree said.

“It is a big disappointment to me, and to the Force,” Melora said.

“Well, I’m afraid there isn’t much I can do to help you,” Tree said. “I obviously wasn’t aware of any of this.”

“And you have no idea why Mr. Trinchera would have need of a private detective—even a retired private detective?”

“Not a clue,” Tree said.

“What about your lawyer. What’s her name?”

“Edith Goldman,” Tree said. Finally, a question he could answer truthfully.

“Edith Goldman,” Melora repeated, as if to make a mental note of it. “And Ms. Goldman does not know why Mr. Trinchera wanted to see you?”

“If she does, she didn’t tell me, and since the murder of Mr. Trinchera, I’ve only spoken briefly to her.”

“She didn’t happen to say anything about a dog, did she?”

“I can only repeat what I’ve already told you. I don’t know anything about a dog.”

“You’re sure. This is Vic Trinchera’s dog.” Melora’s blue eyes focused on him, unblinking.

“A dog you don’t like.”

“That’s beside the point.”

“I didn’t know he was a gangster, and I didn’t know he had a dog.” Tree thought the words came out of his mouth smoothly enough. During his time as a private detective, he had become quite a proficient liar, a dubious accomplishment, to say the least.

“Yes, he did. Have a dog, I mean. Now the dog is missing.”

“How do you know this?”

“When I went back to get the dog—I mean I hated the idea. I don’t even like to touch them. Hate the sound of their barking. Anyway, when I arrived at the house, the dog wasn’t there.”

“He called you, didn’t he?” Tree said. “I was there when he made the call. He called the police officer he was working with when he thought his life might be in danger. You picked him up.”

Melora didn’t say anything. But her head moved up and down ever so slightly.

“When you drove off with Trinchera, where did you take him?”