Free The Hound of the Sanibel Sunset Detective by Ron Base

limited when it comes to providing help.”
    Tree thought for a moment and then bent down to look at Clinton, now chomping away at his bowl of kibble. He called, “Clinton, come here. That’s a boy, come here.”
    Clinton lifted his head up as though offended anyone should bother him while he was eating.
    “What are you doing?” Freddie asked.
    “What’s the one thing we haven’t considered in connection with Clinton?” Tree said.
    “I don’t think we’ve actually considered much of anything. So far, all we’ve had is Tree Callister and his blind determination to hang onto this dog, no matter what.”
    “I’ll tell you what we haven’t done. We haven’t spent enough time considering why he is so important.”
    As though on cue, Clinton left his kibble unfinished to stand in front of Freddie and Tree, presenting himself for inspection.
    “I mean, Clinton,” Tree said to him, “you’re a great dog and everything, but what is it about you that makes Canadian Mounties and Montreal gangsters come looking for you?”
    “Maybe Clinton knows the secret code to something,” Freddie said. “You scratch his ears just the right way, and he barks out the code.”
    “I wish you could talk to us, Clinton,” Tree said, studying the dog closely. “It would be so much simpler if you could just tell us what everyone is looking for.”
    Clinton turned his head, as if baffled by what these humans were going on about. Tree reached forward and undid the yellow collar Clinton wore around his neck.
    “It contains a map to buried treasure,” Freddie said.
    “You read too many Hardy Boys mysteries,” Tree said.
    “Not me,” Freddie said. “I was strictly Nancy Drew.”
    The collar was decorated with red metal flowers, slightly raised. He turned the collar over. The printing on the back announced the “original all style, No Stink Collar.” It was manufactured by the Dublin Dog Company. Silver studs held the collar’s end flap in place and provided anchorage for the buckle and a metal D-ring to which a dog license was attached. It said Clinton was licensed in the city of Montreal. Tree wondered if that made him an outlaw dog here on Captiva.
    Tree scraped his fingernail across the license and then tried to pry up one of the flowers. But the scraping revealed nothing and the flowers refused to budge. Clinton had grown bored and lay down.
    “Here, let me take a look,” Freddie said.
    “You’re not going to find anything,” Tree said, handing her the collar.
    “I know, but let me look, anyway.”
    She turned the collar over in her slim hands. Tree went to the refrigerator and got himself a Diet Coke. Freddie flattened the collar on the counter. She dug a fingernail into the collar’s soft undersurface. The edge of her nail caught something and part of the collar peeled away. Beneath the strip of yellow plastic was an address:
    O. Crimson
    220 NW 26th St.
    Miami, Fl.
    33127
    “You said Vic Trinchera owned Clinton,” Freddie said.
    “That’s what I thought,” Tree said.
    “Then who is this guy?”
    “I have no idea,” Tree said.
    Freddie said, “Supposing we find out.”
    “I’m not sure we’re going to find anything,” Tree said.
    “Maybe not, but I haven’t been to Miami for a while. We can look up this O. Crimson and then have an early dinner.”
    “That’s what it is,” Tree said. “You want to have dinner in Miami.”
    “Your ability to see right through me is extraordinary,” she said with a grin. “Let’s get going. I want to Google a couple of restaurants.”

12
    I n the Wynwood district of Miami, the inmates had taken over the asylum. An invading army of artists forever in search of cheap lands to occupy had transformed what had been a maze of warehouses on a rundown industrial wasteland, filling exterior walls with dramatic murals bursting with color, wild pop art creations reminding Tree of the brightly colored Sunday comic pages of his youth.
    Two-twenty Northwest Twenty-sixth