Free Ron Base - Tree Callister 03 - Another Sanibel Sunset Detective by Ron Base Page A

said. “Do you want a gimlet?”
    “I don’t want a gimlet.”
    “Only cowards refuse to drink gimlets,” Freddie said. “They don’t drink and they run away from the lion.”
    “I didn’t run,” Tree protested. “I didn’t. I’m not a coward.”
    The white hunter grinned sardonically. “It’s a damn fine lion. Sure you don’t want a gimlet?”
    “Tree. Tree, wake up.”
    He opened his eyes. Freddie, still in her pajamas, was standing over him. “It’s six o’clock,” she said.
    “I don’t want a gimlet,” he said.
    “What?” she said.
    He got up from their bed. There was no sign of a campfire or a white hunter who looked like Sean Connery.
    “You’d better hurry or you’re going to miss the boat to Key West,” Freddie said.
    “Yes,” he said.
    “And what’s all this stuff about a gimlet?”

12
    Just before dawn, Tree drove into the parking lot adjacent to the Key West Express dock. He locked the Beetle and then walked over to the ramp leading to the ticket office where other passengers were already lined up, tourists mostly, somber and still half asleep.
    Tree showed his photo identification—a requirement before they would let you on the boat—and paid for his ticket. He crossed to where the giant catamaran—“the Big Cat”—was docked, went aboard, got himself a coffee, and then found a seat on the upper level. The boat quickly filled with passengers. Presently, the diesel engines started up, members of the crew cast off the lines at either end of the vessel, and the catamaran moved away from the dock, churning out the harbor, past Fort Myers Beach condos lined up like white dominos along the shore.
    Tree leaned against a railing as the Key West Express passed beneath the San Carlos Bridge. A sailboat swooped past, shining in the morning sun, inspiring a flurry of excited waving from Tree’s fellow passengers.
    Tree found a seat out of the already hot sun. Not far away, three large men roared with laughter, enjoying their first beers of the day. The ferry finally cleared the harbor and the jet-propelled diesels went into action as the craft made an arcing left, picking up speed, Fort Myers Beach fading behind the wake’s creamy foam.
    For the first hour or so the sea remained calm, the sky clear, and Tree enjoyed the ride. He tried not to think of Elizabeth Traven or Susan Troy, née Cailie Fisk, or the half-truths he had told Freddie. He finished his coffee and then climbed the stairs to the upper deck for a better view of the sea. He inhaled the salty air, waving to the passing tourist boats and pleasure craft.
    At mid-morning clouds blotted the sun, darkening the sky. The wind rose and the sea grew choppy. The coffee sloshed around in Tree’s stomach. He didn’t feel well. He went back down to his mid-decks seat. That didn’t help. He felt queasier than ever. The Big Cat shook every time it hit a high wave.
    Finally, Tree retreated below decks to one of the airline-type easy chairs in the main lounge. He broke into a sweat as his stomach roiled violently. He stared at the floor, trying not to think about throwing up. He twisted around to identify the location of rest rooms, groaning, thinking about how much he hated water and boats; the madness of living in a tropical world defined by both.
    “Here, take this.” A hand held out a plastic bag. “You can throw up in it.”
    He took the bag as Cailie Fisk slipped into the seat beside him. He had a moment to observe her form-fitting blouse and jeans before he lowered his head into the bag and brought up the coffee and whatever else churned in his betraying stomach.
    Cailie put her hand on his shoulder as his stomach twisted again, and his body shuddered, ejecting more liquid into the bag.
    When it was over she said, “Here, let me take that.” She plucked the bag from his fingers and was gone. Great, he thought as he gasped for air. The last person in the world he wanted to throw up in front of, and not only was he doing