The Hound of the Sanibel Sunset Detective by Ron Base Read Free Book Online Page B

Tree said, leaning against the counter. “No one’s going to desert you.”
    Seemingly satisfied with this reassurance, Clinton began to wolf down his kibble. Tree watched him, shaking his head. “But what is it about you? First your owner is anxious to give you to me. Next my lawyer wants to know where you are, and now the Canadian police are after you. What kind of dog are you, anyway?”
    Tree stroked Clinton’s head. Clinton looked up briefly at Tree with those big baleful eyes, and then returned to his food. Tree’s cellphone rang. It was Rex Baxter.
    “I just wanted to make sure you’re at Fun Friday,” Rex said.
    “I told you I was going to be there,” Tree said.
    “I know what you told me,” Rex said, irritably. “I just want to make sure you do it, that’s all.”
    “It’s important to you, so I’ll be there.”
    “Maybe I just miss you, and I call you because I long to hear the dulcet tones of your voice.”
    “That could be it all right,” Tree said.
    “I’ll see you in a while,” Rex said, hanging up.
    After Clinton finished eating, Tree took him along Andy Rosse, the hound relieving himself and marking his territory at intervals. The beach was crowded this afternoon, so Tree kept the dog on his leash. Clinton turned out to be quite the celebrity, everyone coming up and admiring this unusual dog. He’s a French hound, Tree explained in response to the questions, reciting what he had discovered online. They are known as Porcelaines, the French version of the English foxhound seen in those old hunting prints.
    This explanation, repeated over and over, appeared to satisfy most of Clinton’s admirers, particularly children. Clinton took all this attention in stride. He permitted a little girl to play with his ears, and he waited patiently while a little boy decided whether or not he had the courage to touch his nose—patience paid off. He finally worked up the nerve, and, as he petted the dog, his face glowed with pleasure.
    Tree found that he was enjoying himself, strolling along the beach beneath a late afternoon sun with this four-legged creature who overnight had become a fixture in his life. A couple of days ago, he would not even have thought of a dog. Now, he had to admit to himself, he was having trouble imagining life without one.
    Back at the house, Tree changed into a pair of long pants, put on a fresh shirt, made sure Clinton had water in his bowl, and collected his keys. Clinton stood glumly watching him. When Tree opened the door, the dog tried to scramble out. Tree had to grab him by the collar. “No, boy, you stay here, okay? I’m going to be only an hour or so, and then I’ll be back, and we’ll go for another walk.”
    As Tree got into his car, he could hear Clinton howl from inside. He worried all over again that if someone was looking for the dog, Clinton was doing a good job of providing his whereabouts. By the time Tree started the Beetle up, however, Clinton had gone silent. Relieved, Tree backed the car onto Andy Rosse Lane and threaded his way down Captiva, across Blind Pass onto Sanibel Island where the traffic became congested. Even taking the back way along West Gulf Drive didn’t save him much time. It was nearing six o’clock by the time he got off the crowded causeway and turned onto Port Comfort Road. The Lighthouse Restaurant parking lot at this time of night was nearly full, but he finally found a spot at the end, near the marina.
    The two young women behind the reception desk greeted him with smiles that gave him hope. He went into the crowded bar. He couldn’t see any sign of Freddie, but Todd Jackson, elegantly turned out as always, stood at the bar beside Rex Baxter who, for the moment, had his back to Tree. When he turned, Tree could see that Rex had his arm around an attractive woman. He recognized her with a start.
    Kelly Fleming.
    Anyone from Chicago would have recognized her. At one time she was the Windy City’s best-known newscaster.
    She