Free The Hound of the Sanibel Sunset Detective by Ron Base Page A

Street was once a garage. Its entrance was wide open so that Tree and Freddie could walk inside. The interior had been converted into an artist’s studio filled with huge canvases.
    “Hello,” Freddie called. “Anyone here?”
    There was no answer. Freddie called again. Tree noted the sign hanging above him on the wall: TODAY IS THE DAY.
    Was it? Perhaps it was. But the day for what? He began leafing through the racks of canvases. Crimson’s output was nothing if not prodigious, a stew of cityscapes and celebrities, intricate homages to an American culture that always seemed to feature Audrey and Marilyn, Elvis and James Dean. Nothing too daring, Tree decided. Lots of stuff you could safely hang on your living room wall—provided that your wall was the size of a football field.
    Tree heard the sound of a motor gearing down. He turned to see a low-slung black and yellow motorcycle turning off the street, slow, and then bump across the threshold into the garage. The bike’s rider wore a Daft Punk-style black helmet. A short black skirt allowed the display of long, graceful legs ending in feet incased in ankle-high biker boots.
    The rider shut down the bike and eased off, removing her helmet, shaking loose shoulder-length hair. She had the kind of perfectly proportioned features that inspired use of the word beautiful; the kind of face young men with acoustic guitars wrote songs about and remembered wistfully when they grew old.
    Tree said, “That’s some bike.”
    The beautiful young woman shook out her long hair again and said, “It’s the Ducati Streetfighter. The world’s best motorbike, in my estimation, and I have driven them all. Are you a biker?”
    “Just an admirer,” Tree said.
    “We’re art lovers,” Freddie interjected. “Art lovers with a lot of empty walls to fill.”
    “Then you have come to the right place,” the young woman said. “Please, make yourself at home. The studio is open to everyone. Oliver should be back any time.”
    “That’s Oliver Crimson?” Tree said.
    “Crimson, just Crimson.” The long-haired young woman removed a velvet bag from the rear of her Ducati Streetfighter and pulled out a pair of high-heel shoes. She proceeded to remove the boots and slip on the heels.
    “My name is Shay—Shay Ostler. If I can help you with anything, please let me know.”
    She drifted off, carrying her biker boots, and disappeared through a door in the rear of the garage. Freddie went back to inspecting the stacks of canvases.
    “Any pictures of a dog?” Tree asked.
    “Not so far,” Freddie said.
    Shay reappeared, this time trailing a big, barrel-bellied man springing into view with a flourish that suggested this was opening night for the stage production of his own life. Straw-colored hair was pushed dramatically back in thick waves from a high tanned forehead. “I am here, right now,” he called to Freddie and Tree in a deep, sonorous voice. “Where have you been?”
    He glided over to take Freddie’s hand in two of his. “We share a moment together,” he announced looking deep into her eyes. “And that’s important. That’s all that counts.”
    Shay announced, “This is Crimson .”
    Tree half expected a guy in a top hat to appear and snap a whip at a tiger.
    “Am I?” Crimson said. “Am I anything that’s real? Are any of us? Perhaps we are all just manifestations of our collected desires, hopes, fears, coming together in these semi-fictional characters we call ourselves.”
    Crimson’s head snapped back, as if he needed extra space in which to inspect his visitors. “Tell me where you are from.”
    “Just up the road on Captiva Island,” Tree said.
    “Ah, from the real world, then.” Crimson sounded disappointed.
    “I wouldn’t say Captiva is anything like the real world,” Freddie said.
    “Whatever. Welcome to the unreal world.” Crimson punctuated his words with a grandiose sweep of his hand. “This is the world most people ignore. It is the world