Ron Base - Tree Callister 03 - Another Sanibel Sunset Detective by Ron Base

shop. Maybe you’d like a Hemingway T-shirt. As soon as I’m finished here, I’ll find you.”
    ________
    Tree spent some time poking around the gift shop. When he came out, he found Hank on a bench near the pool talking to a lingering elderly couple.
    “So Hemingway gets home from Spain, where he’d been having it off with Martha Gelhorn,” Hank said. “Pauline, meanwhile, got wind of the affair and as revenge spent twenty thousand dollars building this swimming pool. The entire house only cost eight thousand. Ernest was furious. ‘You’ve cost me everything,’ he yelled at her. ‘Here, you might as well have my last red cent.’ And he threw a penny down on the ground. Pauline, who I guess had a sense of humor, had it embedded in the cement.”
    He pointed a finger at a coin implanted in one of the deck stones. “And there it is.”
    The couple chuckled nervously, uncertain whether Hemingway the adulterer was amusing. The husband slipped Hank a ten-dollar bill. His wife thanked him for the entertaining and informative tour, albeit a little controversial.
    The elderly couple drifted off, and Tree joined Hank on the bench. The late afternoon sun threw long shadows across Hemingway’s lushly tropical backyard.
    “You didn’t buy a T-shirt.”
    “No.”
    “Funny. You struck me as the kind of guy who might wear a Hemingway T-shirt.”
    “That’s not a compliment, is it?”
    “No, it isn’t.” Hank grinned.
    “Anything to that last red cent story?”
    Hank shrugged. “As true as anything, I suppose. Is the furniture in the house his?” Another shrug. “Well, Mr. Hemingway and Pauline divorced in 1940. She kept the house, since she paid for it, and lived here until she died in 1951. She and Hadley rekindled their friendship, incidentally. I suppose they had a lot to talk about.
    “After Pauline was gone, the house reverted back to Mr. Hemingway, but he never returned. The place was sold to a local businesswoman in 1961. She held onto it until there were so many tourists pounding on the door it was decided to turn it into a museum. Hard to believe the original furniture survived all that. Nevertheless, we tell them it’s real. For all I know it is. And for all I know, Mr. Callister, you are a harmless enough individual who might be tempted to buy a T-shirt in Key West, but who otherwise should steer clear of the trouble you seem bound and determined to get into.”
    “Are you in love with Elizabeth Traven?”
    He seemed slightly taken aback by the question. “Should I be?”
    “Everyone else seems to be.”
    “Elizabeth is the sort of woman you watch carefully, Mr. Callister. You don’t fall in love with her—that is if you’ve got any brains.”
    “Where Elizabeth is concerned, men don’t seem to have them.”
    “You could be talking about yourself, Mr. Callister.”
    “Is she still in Key West?”
    “Mr. Callister, you are a private detective, is that correct?”
    “Yes,” Tree said.
    “I’m afraid you have been sent here by idiots to do an idiot’s work.”
    “What about you, Dearlove? You appear to be mixed up with them.”
    “If I was, I soon realized I had made a mistake. You would be wise to do the same thing.”
    “And do what?”
    “Buy your T-shirt at the gift shop, and then go away and forget about all this.”
    “Answer my question first. Is Elizabeth in Key West?”
    “I have no idea where she is.”
    “Suppose I think you’re lying.”
    The watery smile was back as Hank heaved himself to his feet. “The people who hired you are old fools, involved in something they should never have become involved in. Meaning no disrespect to you, Mr. Callister, stumbling amateurs have hired an amateur to work for them. Your enthusiasm is commendable, but if you push this any further, you are going to get into a lot of trouble, and it will end badly for you, I promise.”
    “Everyone I meet threatens me these days.”
    “Some threats you should take more seriously than others,”