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Sergeant Melora Spark . . .”
    “Sergeant? Sergeant of what?”
    “Of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.”
    “The what?” Tree said.
    “The RCMP,” Melora Spark said. “That is the acronym for the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. I am a member of Canada’s national police force.”
    “Sergeant Spark, is it?”
    “That’s correct, Mr. Callister.” The voice in identifying itself had regained some authority.
    Tree said, “It’s not every day I get a call from a Canadian police officer. What can I do for you?”
    “Do for me? Okay, what I would like, I would like to have a word with you if I might.”
    “What about?”
    Sergeant Spark said, “What about? Yes, well, I would prefer not to talk about this on the phone. Do you mind—would it be possible to come to your house so we could talk there?”
    He looked at Clinton contentedly attacking his ears. The last thing he wanted right now was a lot of fumbling around trying to explain the dog. “First of all, I’d like to know what this is about,” Tree said.
    “What it’s about? Okay, it’s in connection with a case I’m working on. As I told you, I would prefer not to discuss it on the phone.”
    “Tell you what,” Tree said. “Why don’t we meet at the Bubble Room? That’s just around the corner from where I am, and right now a little more convenient. Do you know where it is on Captiva?”
    “The Bubble Room. That’s fine. I can find it, Mr. Callister. Shall we say in one hour?”
    “An hour? You must be in a hurry.”
    “Hurry? Yes. I have a limited amount of time here. Can we meet in an hour?”
    “I’ll meet you at the main entrance,” Tree said.
    “That’s fine,” Melora Spark said, and hung up.
    Tree looked down at Clinton. “Now what? In addition to being a French hound and an organized-crime dog, you are also a Canadian. So what is it, Clinton? Are the Canadians after you as well?”
    Clinton continued to nip at his ears, apparently having the time of his life.
    Tree was still holding the phone when it vibrated in his hand. Clinton stopped biting his ears His head jerked up. Tree grinned. “Sorry about this, Clinton. The phone didn’t ring nearly so much before I retired.”
    “How’s retirement?” Rex Baxter said. “Are you bored out of your mind yet?”
    “What? You can’t live without me?”
    “Are you kidding? You’ve been gone less than forty-eight hours and already tourism is up.”
    “I think you miss me.”
    “Not me. Are you coming to Fun Friday tonight?”
    “Right, it is Friday, isn’t it?”
    “See? Already you’re losing track of time. That’s not a good sign, Tree. Are you coming or not?”
    Tree looked at Clinton. “I don’t know. I hadn’t thought much about it.”
    “Do me a favor and be there, okay?”
    “Any particular reason?”
    “There’s someone I want you and Freddie to meet.”

7
    T he Bubble Room was an island landmark. A maze of small rooms strung with Christmas tree lights, crammed with framed reminders of a pop culture era when Roy Rogers and Buster Crabbe and Gordon Scott (Tarzan of the movies when Tree was a kid) ruled, crowded with customers who could still recognize a languid Kim Novak or an intense Fred MacMurray, a somber Claudette Colbert (hand held against her heart) or recall when Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis co-starred in Sailor Beware and weren’t surprised to see William Holden in a forgotten piece of nonsense called Boots Malone .
    Tree studied the photographs in the Bubble Room’s foyer. None of the staff knew who any of these people were, of course. Everyone was too young. They barely recognized the youthful John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever .
    The front door opened and in came a slim, frazzled-looking woman, blond hair pulled back into a pony tail, the austere air of the spinsterish grade ten teacher who gave you detentions because you didn’t have your English grammar homework done. Her mouth grimaced anxiously as she looked around. When she spotted Tree,