Ron Base - Tree Callister 03 - Another Sanibel Sunset Detective (9 page)

“Tree.”

“Tree.”

You never answered my question.”

“What was that, Tree?”

“Where you are from.”

“Just outside St. Louis.” She took Chris’s arm. “All set?”

“See you later,” Chris said, and off they went.

Rex looked Tree up and down. “What was that all about?”

“What was what all about?”

“You and that woman. She looked at you like she knew you.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“Hey, you’re talking to me, kemo sabe.”

Tree shrugged. “Chris mentioned the other day he’d met someone. Maybe I’m a little concerned that this may not be the right time to be chasing blondes around Sanibel Island, that’s all.”

“Because the cops still have their eye on him for the Kendra Callister murder.”

Now it was Tree’s turn to stare at Rex. “What have you heard?”

“Just that. The view is that maybe Ray Dayton killed Kendra, but maybe he didn’t. Sure they found Ray’s sperm in her. But they also found Chris’s.”

Tree put what was left of his water on the bar. “I’m going to get out of here,” he said.

“Sorry if I upset you,” Rex said.

“No, it’s all right. Nothing to do with you, Rex. Fun Friday isn’t much fun tonight, that’s all.”

________

Freddie still wasn’t home when he got back to Andy Rosse Lane. That gave him time to consider his shock at finding Chris with Cailie Fisk or Susan Troy or whatever her name was. He reminded himself again that nothing had happened between them. There was no scandal here. Okay, but then why hadn’t he told Freddie that? Perhaps because something
had
happened. No matter how much he tried to rationalize it, he had ended up in a young woman’s hotel room late at night in Paris. He could claim innocence all he wanted, but it didn’t
appear
innocent. Even if Freddie said she believed him, there would still be a shadow lingering over their marriage that had never been there before.

Someone was ringing the front door bell. Who would be calling at this time of night? He went to the door and opened it to find Vera Dayton swaying on the doorstep.

“Vera,” he said.

“Freddie,” Vera said. “I want to talk to Freddie.”

“She’s not here right now,” Tree said.

Vera barged past him. He caught the whiff of scotch and realized she was drunk. In the living room, Vera flopped on a sofa, a small, stout woman, the remnants of blond youth still visible in the round smoothness of her face. Tonight, however, her eyes were cloudy and unfocused and her lip kept curling in a way that lent her unintended meanness—or maybe not so unintended.

“I’ve come to tell Freddie I’m not going to let her do it,” she said in a slurred voice. “It’s not gonna happen.”

“Did you drive over here, Vera?” Tree kept his voice steady, trying to avoid doing anything that would spark a confrontation with Ray Dayton’s inebriated widow.

“I didn’t want Ray to hire her, you know,” Vera went on. “I told him not to do it. She wasn’t needed. Wasn’t wanted. But as usual, he didn’t listen to me, and now he’s dead, and the last thing I want is her taking over.”

“Now is probably not the time to be talking about this, Vera.”

Her head shot up, momentarily lifting the clouds from her eyes. “He loved her, you know.” Vera making a formal accusation. “He was crazy about Freddie.”

“I know all about it,” Tree said.

She issued a drunken smirk. “You
think
you know, Mr. Tree Callister. But you don’t know it all. You don’t know everything.”

“What don’t I know, Vera?”

“You don’t have a cigarette, do you?”

“Sorry, Vera,” Tree said, wondering how the devil he was going to get her out of here.

“That’s right. Tree Callister doesn’t smoke. He doesn’t drink. He’s a good boy, that Tree Callister.” She issued a snort of laughter. “But we know, Tree. We know. Don’t we?”

Tree just stared at her, certain that anything he said would only further antagonize her.

She gave another snort of laughter. “There are things I could tell you, Mr. Sunset Detective. You think you’re smart, but you’re not smart at all.”

She put her head back against the sofa, and the next thing Tree knew she was snoring gently.

That’s how Freddie found her when she came in a few minutes later. “When did she get here?”

“Not long ago,” Tree said. “She says she doesn’t want you taking over her business.”

“That’s what she said?”

“A number of times. But she’s pretty loaded.”

“Well, we can’t let her drive home.”

Freddie gently shook her. Vera smacked her lips loudly and sat up. When she saw Freddie she put on a bleary smile. “I’m drunk, Freddie. Sorry.”

“We’re going to drive you home,” Freddie said.

“No, I can drive all right,” Vera said.

Freddie helped her to her feet. “It’s no problem. Tree and I have to go out, anyway. We’ll just drop you off. It’s better that way.”

“You’re not a bad person, Freddie. You’re really not.”

“Let’s go out to the car, Vera.”

“This is kind of you,” Vera said. “But I can drive. Really, I can.” Vera collapsed against Freddie who caught her and made sure she didn’t fall to the floor.

With Tree’s help, they got her outside. Vera’s Jaguar was on the lawn. She had left the driver’s side door open. Tree closed it and then helped Freddie put Vera into the back seat of the Mercedes.

Freddie got behind the wheel and then Tree went to the Jag and climbed in. The key was still in the ignition. He started the motor, and the Jag rumbled contentedly as he backed it onto the roadway.

Tree followed Freddie’s tail lights to Vera and Ray’s rambling one-story house at the Sanctuary, the island’s only gated community. Tree parked the Jag in the drive and watched as Freddie escorted a woozy-but-conscious Vera inside the house. Ten minutes later she was back.

“I’m sorry about that,” Freddie said.

“I don’t think she’s ever gotten over the fact her husband was in love with you,” Tree said.

“Ray wasn’t in love with me,” Freddie said.

“That’s what Vera thinks.”

“Whatever it was, it wasn’t love.”

________

Later, when they were in bed, Tree, unable to sleep, twisted around, trying to block out the lion’s roar.

The lion’s roar
?

He sat up on the camp cot, hearing it again. He got up and pushed back the canvas tent flap and stepped into a clearing lit by the glow of a camp fire. He was surprised to see Freddie seated by the fire close to a muscular, black-haired fellow with the rather cruelly-handsome face of a young Sean Connery. The two of them glanced up quickly as he approached—rather guiltily, Tree thought.

“Did you hear the sound of that lion?” Tree said.

“Let’s not talk about the lion,” Freddie said.

“Why not?” said Tree. “Why can’t we talk about the lion?”

“It’s a damn fine lion,” said the Sean Connery guy. “What’ll it be, Macomber? Shall I have the mess boy make you a gimlet?”

“Macomber?” said Tree. “You mean Francis Macomber?”

“You’re a coward,” Freddie said, poking at the fire with a stick, making quick, angry thrusts. “That’s why I slept with him.”

“Who? Who did you sleep with?” Tree demanded.

“Wilson here. The white hunter. After you ran from the lion. After you showed yourself to be a coward, I thought it was time I was with a real man.”

“You’re not supposed to say that,” Tree protested. “I’m supposed to read it between the lines. The way Hemingway would have had it.”

“It’s a damn fine lion,” Wilson said.

“To hell with between the lines,” Freddie said. “I slept with him. You might as well know it. You’ve always been a coward. You’ve always tried to conceal it, first in the newspaper business and then by becoming a detective. You did everything you could to hide your fear. But now you’ve confronted the lion and run away, and everyone knows the truth about you.”

The white hunter grinned and said, “Sure you won’t have a gimlet?”

“A what?” Tree said.

“A gimlet,” Freddie said. “Do you want a gimlet?”

“I don’t want a gimlet.”

“Only cowards refuse to drink gimlets,” Freddie said. “They don’t drink and they run away from the lion.”

“I didn’t run,” Tree protested. “I didn’t. I’m not a coward.”

The white hunter grinned sardonically. “It’s a damn fine lion. Sure you don’t want a gimlet?”

“Tree. Tree, wake up.”

He opened his eyes. Freddie, still in her pajamas, was standing over him. “It’s six o’clock,” she said.

“I don’t want a gimlet,” he said.

“What?” she said.

He got up from their bed. There was no sign of a campfire or a white hunter who looked like Sean Connery.

“You’d better hurry or you’re going to miss the boat to Key West,” Freddie said.

“Yes,” he said.

“And what’s all this stuff about a gimlet?”

12

Just before dawn, Tree drove into the parking lot adjacent to the Key West Express dock. He locked the Beetle and then walked over to the ramp leading to the ticket office where other passengers were already lined up, tourists mostly, somber and still half asleep.

Tree showed his photo identification—a requirement before they would let you on the boat—and paid for his ticket. He crossed to where the giant catamaran—“the Big Cat”—was docked, went aboard, got himself a coffee, and then found a seat on the upper level. The boat quickly filled with passengers. Presently, the diesel engines started up, members of the crew cast off the lines at either end of the vessel, and the catamaran moved away from the dock, churning out the harbor, past Fort Myers Beach condos lined up like white dominos along the shore.

Tree leaned against a railing as the Key West Express passed beneath the San Carlos Bridge. A sailboat swooped past, shining in the morning sun, inspiring a flurry of excited waving from Tree’s fellow passengers.

Tree found a seat out of the already hot sun. Not far away, three large men roared with laughter, enjoying their first beers of the day. The ferry finally cleared the harbor and the jet-propelled diesels went into action as the craft made an arcing left, picking up speed, Fort Myers Beach fading behind the wake’s creamy foam.

For the first hour or so the sea remained calm, the sky clear, and Tree enjoyed the ride. He tried not to think of Elizabeth Traven or Susan Troy, née Cailie Fisk, or the half-truths he had told Freddie. He finished his coffee and then climbed the stairs to the upper deck for a better view of the sea. He inhaled the salty air, waving to the passing tourist boats and pleasure craft.

At mid-morning clouds blotted the sun, darkening the sky. The wind rose and the sea grew choppy. The coffee sloshed around in Tree’s stomach. He didn’t feel well. He went back down to his mid-decks seat. That didn’t help. He felt queasier than ever. The Big Cat shook every time it hit a high wave.

Finally, Tree retreated below decks to one of the airline-type easy chairs in the main lounge. He broke into a sweat as his stomach roiled violently. He stared at the floor, trying not to think about throwing up. He twisted around to identify the location of rest rooms, groaning, thinking about how much he hated water and boats; the madness of living in a tropical world defined by both.

“Here, take this.” A hand held out a plastic bag. “You can throw up in it.”

He took the bag as Cailie Fisk slipped into the seat beside him. He had a moment to observe her form-fitting blouse and jeans before he lowered his head into the bag and brought up the coffee and whatever else churned in his betraying stomach.

Cailie put her hand on his shoulder as his stomach twisted again, and his body shuddered, ejecting more liquid into the bag.

When it was over she said, “Here, let me take that.” She plucked the bag from his fingers and was gone. Great, he thought as he gasped for air. The last person in the world he wanted to throw up in front of, and not only was he doing just that, but she was helping him.

She returned, handing him a couple of tissues. He pressed them against his perspiring face. His stomach began to settle.

He said, “What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to help you.”

“What are you doing here?”

“What do you think? I’m going to Key West.”

“You’re following me.”

She snorted with laughter. “That’s rather arrogant, don’t you think?”

He sat back, taking deep breaths. Around him, he could hear passenger voices over the throb of the jet engines. Voices that appeared to be enjoying the ride. He glanced around. No one else was puking into plastic bags. He felt foolish and embarrassed.

“Come on. Susan or Cailie or whatever your name is, you manage to insinuate yourself into my life in Paris—”