Ron Base - Tree Callister 03 - Another Sanibel Sunset Detective by Ron Base

avoided the crowds along Duval. Tree said that was fine.
    Marco started off, moving along artfully shaded residential streets lined with the traditional conch houses originally built by salvage wreckers and sponge fishermen from the Bahamas who had brought with them Florida’s most unique architecture.
    Marco said he was from Serbia, working in Key West on a student visa. The local economy could not get along without guys like him, he said.
    Tree telephoned Freddie. To his surprise she picked up immediately. “I’m calling you from a Key West pedicab,” Tree said.
    “So you are okay?”
    “If you don’t count the fact that I threw up on the boat,” he said.
    “You are not a man of the sea,” she said.
    “We will not be sailing around the world,” Tree agreed.
    “Is Elizabeth at the hotel?”
    “I haven’t checked yet.”
    “What are you going to do if she isn’t?”
    To avoid answering that question, he said, “I wish you were here. This pedicab would be a lot more fun with you in it.”
    “You haven’t answered my question. What are you going to do?”
    “I’m not quite sure,” he said.
    “Sounds like this is a bit of a wild goose chase.”
    “I’m going to find her,” Tree insisted.
    “I believe you,” Freddie said.
    “You don’t sound very convinced.”
    “Listen, I’ve got to go. They’re holding a meeting for me. We’re about to sit down with Vera. Wish me luck.”
    “Good luck,” Tree said.
    “Call me tonight,” she said. “Let me know you’re all right.”
    The Southernmost House, in its brightly painted turn-of-the-century glory, stood at the corner of Duval and South Streets. Tree paid off Marco, wished him luck, and walked through the gate into the hotel’s courtyard.
    The Persian carpet in the Southernmost lobby matched the dark wood fireplace and the dark wood desk where a smiling young man said to a middle-aged couple, “The house was a speakeasy in the 1920s, during prohibition.”
    “Was that legal?” asked the woman.
    The young man—Kevin according to his name tag—smiled indulgently. “This was Key West, of course. So what was legal or illegal was always up for grabs. Mr. Al Capone himself was a guest. Someone took a shot at him right here in the lobby.”
    “I wonder what room he stayed in?” said the man.
    “We’re not sure about that,” Kevin said. “But Mr. Al Capone was here, that’s for sure. The man himself.”
    Kevin fixed the tourists with a town map, issued directions to the Hemingway house on Whitehead Street, and ordered them to have “a great day,” before turning his attention to Tree. “Welcome to the Southernmost House, sir. How may I help you?”
    Tree said, “I believe a friend of mine is staying here. A woman named Elizabeth Traven. Can you tell me what room she’s in?”
    Kevin’s frown returned. “That name doesn’t ring a bell, but let me check.” He went to work on the computer keyboard. Even before his fingers had stopped moving, he was shaking his head. “No, Mr. Callister. I’m afraid no one by that name has checked in recently. Also, we don’t have a reservation under that name.”
    “Okay, thanks,” Tree said.
    So much for quickly finding Elizabeth and putting an end to this, he thought. Now what was he supposed to do? If she wasn’t at the hotel, where was she? Maybe not even in Key West. The thought depressed him.
    Then he remembered the photo of Elizabeth with Javor Zoran. As soon as he saw it, Kevin’s face lit with recognition. “She was here last week, but not under that name.”
    “But she’s not here now?”
    “No, she checked out a few days ago,” Kevin said. “I remember because she was with Mr. Hank Dearlove.”
    “Who’s Hank Dearlove?” Tree asked.
    “He’s one of our local guides at the Hemingway Estate,” Kevin said.

14
    The fine old Spanish colonial house where Ernest Hemingway had resided in Key West was at 907 Whitehead Street.
    Tree paid the entrance fee at the ticket booth. A