The Hound of the Sanibel Sunset Detective by Ron Base

fellow with the straw hat were sticking close enough to ensure that she did not move far. To her credit, Tree thought, she appeared more irritated than scared.
    “I don’t like this,” Freddie said, addressing Pockmarked Guy. “I want the two of you to move away.”
    “Don’t hold it against me, darling,” said Pockmarked Guy. “I like to stand beside gorgeous women.”
    “Did you hear me?” A much sharper tone this time. The two looked at the guy with the raspy voice who appeared to be the leader. He nodded and the others took a couple of steps back from Freddie.
    Raspy-voice Guy broke out a reassuring smile. “No one is going to hurt you or your wife, buddy. I’m here delivering a personal invitation from a friend.”
    “I don’t have any friends in Miami,” Tree said.
    “This is a new friend,” said Raspy-voice Guy.
    “He likes comedians,” said Pockmarked Guy.
    “He sure does,” said Balding Guy.
    “Tell you what,” Raspy-voice Guy said to Balding Guy. “Do something that will make our comedian laugh.”
    “He should be making us laugh,” said Balding Guy. “He’s the comedian.”
    “That’s okay,” said Pockmarked Guy. “Go ahead. Make him laugh.”
    “I don’t think he’s going to laugh,” said Balding Guy.
    “Sure he is,” Raspy-voice Guy said.
    “Okay,” said Balding Guy. He pulled a gun out from under the jacket he wore and pointed it at Tree and Freddie.
    “See?” said Balding Guy. “What did I tell you? He’s not laughing.”

13
    T ree, with his lousy sense of direction, had a vague notion the 1968 Chevy Impala they were in was moving southwest along I-95. Their three hosts weren’t exactly providing directions, even after Freddie asked for them, as in, “Where do you think you’re taking us?”
    She sat beside Tree in the rear, clasping his hand, as though that would offer protection from the unknown represented by the three amigos, squeezed into the front seat, facing forward, saying nothing. All Tree could see were bull-like necks straining against collars.
    It had grown dark by the time they turned off the highway onto what Tree thought was SW 40th Street. The next thing he saw was the distinctive tower of the Biltmore Hotel looming against the deepening sky.
    As soon as the Chevy came to a stop at the front entrance, Pockmarked Guy was out, opening the back door, and then helping Freddie out; a mobster with manners, Tree thought.
    The group entered the hotel, scuttling through the lobby and downstairs where there was an arcade leading to the pool area. Marble statues of what appeared to be Greek goddess-like women in flowing robes lined one side of the vast swimming pool, keeping an eye peeled for drowning hotel guests. Freddie looked impressed. “My goodness,” she said.
    “It was once the largest swimming pool in the world,” Tree said.
    “Is that a fact?” said Raspy-voice Guy, also impressed.
    “Johnny Weismuller used to be the swimming instructor here,” Tree said.
    Raspy-voice Guy said, “Who’s Johnny Weismuller?”
    “A gangster generation gap,” Freddie said, rolling her eyes.
    Raspy-voice Guy looked momentarily confused as they approached a series of cabanas separated by manicured hedges so that their occupants inhabited their very own forest glade, complete with well-appointed furniture.
    Tree and Freddie were led to the end cabana. Raspy-voice Guy indicated they should enter. Tree led the way inside. Three lounge chairs were positioned around a teakwood coffee table.
    A moment later, a fragile figure with white hair coughed as he stepped into view. In the dim light thrown off by the nearby pool, he looked gaunt and pale. The loose-fitting white shirt and baggy white linen pants helped, but it was the haunted eyes ringed with dark circles that cast him as a dissolute character out of a Tennessee Williams play.
    He coughed again before announcing in a thin voice containing the trace of a French accent, “Pardon, monsieur et madame. Apologies