The Hound of the Sanibel Sunset Detective Read Online Free PDF Page B

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