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

where every breath you take calls into question the importance of being, where art packs the punch of a Caravaggio painting. This is the world of Crimson, my friends. Stand back, pay attention: art is being made here.”
    Tree said. “Today, however, we’re not so much looking for art.”
    For the first time, Crimson’s sunny demeanor was shadowed by something approaching a frown. “What are you looking for?”
    “Answers,” Tree said.
    Crimson look like someone had clubbed him. “Answers?” he roared. “Don’t you know? There are no answers. There are only questions.”
    Shay came and leaned against him. The heels made her legs seem to go on forever. She towered over Crimson.
    “Then we would like to ask you some questions,” Freddie said hurriedly, before Crimson could draw the breath that would launch him into his next soliloquy.
    “Specifically, we want to ask you about a dog,” Tree added.
    Crimson’s brow curled deep into the dark brown of his skin. “Dog? What dog?”
    “A dog named Clinton,” Tree said.
    Shay looked expectantly at Crimson. The glow of artistic joy had extinguished itself. Crimson’s face reformed into a rock wall. “Who are you people?”
    “We’re trying to find out more about him, about Clinton,” Tree said.
    “There is nothing to say. I had him. I had many things. Now I don’t have those things any longer—the dog included.”
    “Did a man named Vic Trinchera take the dog?”
    “I don’t like to hear that name. That name is from the past. I refuse to live in my past—in any past that does not include Audrey Hepburn.” Crimson’s face clouded over. “I am tired of this. I thought you people might be interesting. But you are not at all. You are doing the worst thing you could possibly do—you are boring me. I want you out of my studio.”
    A scowl interrupted the perfection of Shay’s face. “Don’t upset yourself, Oliver.”
    “I don’t get upset, Shay. That’s not my style. But these two have brought a bad vibe in with them. Bad vibes are anti-art. Therefore, they must leave before it affects my karma.”
    “Shame on the two of you,” Shay said.
    “Yes, it’s one of our shortcomings,” Freddie agreed. “We have no shame.”
    Tree placed his card on the nearest trestle table. “If you change your mind and decide you want to talk, give me a call.”
    The last thing Tree saw as they left was long, languid Shay pressed against Crimson, his face bright with anger.
    _________
    The sun was lowering, as they came out of the building. The sun caused the three men waiting for them to cast long shadows. The shadows made the trio seem more formidable. Tree recognized them from the Biltmore: the guy with the pockmarked face, on his way to a jazz gig—or maybe just getting back—wearing the same straw hat. Beside him the balding guy looked tired, as though being a grandfather was too much for him. The third, with the mustache and goatee, was Raspy-voice guy.
    Why did the men who were about to get you into trouble always look the same? Tree wondered. Somewhere there must be a thug ranch where they graduate these characters. Raspy-voice Guy said to Tree, “There you are, Mr. Callister. How are you, buddy?”
    “What is this?” Tree said.
    “This is nothing,” said Raspy-voice Guy. “Why should it be anything?”
    “You’re art students, I suppose, out for an afternoon tour of the Wynwood Walls,” Tree said.
    Pockmarked Guy smiled. “Hey, a comedian. I like that.”
    Raspy-voice Guy said, “Yeah, we know just the place for your comedy act, buddy. Why don’t you come along with us?”
    “I don’t think we want to go anywhere,” Tree said, keeping an eye on Freddie who never took her gaze away from him.
    “That’s not the right attitude,” said Balding Guy.
    “Well, we’ve got to get back to Fort Myers,” Freddie said calmly. “You know, beat the rush hour traffic.”
    No one was actually touching Freddie, Tree noticed. But Balding Guy and the