The Hound of the Sanibel Sunset Detective Read Free Page A

and tidy—and empty—under the bright noontime sun, were flanked by handsome Spanish-style homes reflecting comfortable, tasteful prosperity in a lush tropical setting.
    The Anastasia Avenue address Edith had given him was less than five minutes from the Biltmore. If those three were coming for Vic Trinchera, they would not have far to travel—which meant Tree didn’t have a whole lot of time.
    He brought the Beetle to a stop in front of a Mediterranean-style bungalow with a red tile roof. It was a pleasant home but less elegant than the neighbors’ places, partially hidden behind a mixture of banyan and palm trees. Tree got out of the car, went to the door, and rang the bell.
    When no one answered after a couple of moments, he rang again. The door opened and Tree found himself confronted by a tiny, gray man in a blue gym suit. The gray man’s long, horse-like face was topped by a Greek fisherman’s cap, pushed back on his forehead. He looked as though he was on his way to a bingo game at the Senior Citizen’s Home.
    He said, “Yeah?” as though annoyed at being interrupted en route to the big game.
    “Mr. Trinchera?”
    The small, dark eyes shaded by the peak of the fisherman’s cap filled with suspicion. “Who’s asking?” he demanded.
    “Edith Goldman sent me,” Tree said.
    The suspicion in Trinchera’s eyes dissolved somewhat. “You Callister?”
    Tree nodded. “I’m Tree Callister.”
    “You’re late,” Trinchera snapped. “But come on in.”
    Tree stepped into a cool interior while Vic Trinchera carefully closed the door and turned to his visitor. “You strapped?”
    “What?”
    “Strapped? You carry a gun?”
    “No,” Tree said.
    Trinchera looked surprised, and then skeptical. “I don’t like guns in the house, you understand.”
    “I don’t have a gun.”
    “Okay then, that’s fine. Follow me.”
    They went into a darkened living room full of old furniture: a floral print sofa pushed against the wall, a couple of sickly green recliners aimed at a flatscreen television. A framed painting of a Florida bird hung above the sofa. Tree could not tell what kind of bird it was. The furniture looked scruffy and out of place, as though after the purchase of the lovely house in the elegant neighborhood, there was no money left for furniture.
    “Sit down there, Callister.” Vic Trinchera pointed a shaky finger in the direction of the sofa.
    Tree seated himself. Trinchera said, “I haven’t been well,” as though to explain the shaky finger.
    He slumped onto one of the recliners, abruptly looking tired. “This weather gets to me,” he said. “I don’t like the heat.”
    “You’re in the wrong place then,” Tree said.
    Trinchera looked at him sharply. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “Just that if you want to avoid the heat, you’re in the wrong place,” Tree said.
    “Right, okay. I got that.”
    “Are you all alone here?” Tree asked.
    “Why would you ask that?”
    “Hey, take it easy, will you? I just asked you a question.”
    “But why would you ask me that question? Why would you ask me that particular question?”
    “Okay, listen to me, Mr. Trinchera, I’m going to ask you another question. I don’t want you to get mad. I just want a simple answer.”
    “I don’t know why you’re asking me these questions.” Trinchera was sitting up straight now, his body tense. “You come in here, you start asking questions. Edith never said you would be asking so many questions.”
    “What did Edith say?”
    “She said you were a private dick. You would be able to help me out.”
    “That’s what I’m trying to do, but I don’t know anything about you, Mr. Trinchera.”
    “I’m a Montreal businessman. That’s what I am. My brother and me, we own some funeral homes in Montreal. Who says different?”
    “Nobody, as far as I know.”
    “Okay, then. As long as that’s understood.”
    “Is there any reason why three men, maybe sent by a guy name Johnny, would be