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she said, “There you are. Mr. Callister.”
    “Melora Spark?”
    A quick, nervous smile. “Sergeant Melora Spark.”
    A frilly white blouse and unfashionable powder blue slacks did nothing to take away from the uneasy sense Tree experienced in high school when he hadn’t done his homework. Only the open-toed sandals displaying small, beautifully pedicured feet provided any fashion sense.
    Tree shook the pale hand she offered and said, “Sergeant Spark.”
    Sergeant Spark’s eyes—the same color as her slacks, Tree noticed—darted around the foyer, taking in the Christmas tree lights, the walls of photos. “My goodness, this is quite a place, isn’t it?” she said.
    “There’s nothing quite like it,” Tree said.
    “No, I suppose not.”
    A hostess led them to a corner table in one of the back rooms and presented them with menus the size of the tablets in Cecil B. DeMille’s The Ten Commandments , a movie Tree had yet to find represented on the walls of the Bubble Room.
    Melora Spark glanced perfunctorily at the menu and then put it to one side. She cleared her throat and said, “Thank you for agreeing to meet me, Mr. Callister.”
    “I don’t want to start this off on the wrong foot or anything,” Tree said.
    Sergeant Spark’s mouth produced more grimaces, and those blue eyes looked abruptly worried. “Wrong foot? What wrong foot?”
    “Do you mind if I see some identification?” Tree said.
    A waitress in a khaki Boy Scout uniform arrived, all smiles and brisk energy. “Hi, there folks. I’m Kim, and I’m your server today. Have you been to the Bubble Room before?”
    Tree admitted that he had, while Melora Spark looked pained as she fumbled in her shoulder bag.
    “What can I get you folks to drink?” Kim asked.
    Melora blinked a couple of times and asked for a glass of water. Tree ordered a Diet Coke. “Okay, folks. Let me give you a couple of minutes with the menu, and I’ll be back with your drinks.”
    Kim departed and Sergeant Spark slid a silver badge across the table in Tree’s direction. The badge was emblazoned with a crest. Above the crest was the word POLICE. Beneath the crest: RCMP and GRC.
    What’s GRC stand for?” Tree wanted to know.
    “Gendarmerie Royale du Canada,” she promptly replied. “That’s French.”
    “I see,” Tree said.
    “Canada being a bilingual country.”
    “Yes, of course.”
    She cleared her throat again and said, “Maintiens le droit. That’s French, too. Defending the law. Our motto, you see.”
    “Is that what brings you to Florida? You’re here defending the law?”
    She flashed a quick, nervous smile. “That’s a joke, right? I understand that. I’m trying to loosen up about these things. You know, ‘get the joke,’ as they say.”
    “I’m just so funny,” Tree said, deadpan. “The point being, Sergeant Spark, I’m not sure how I can help you.”
    “That’s the thing, you see, you can help me. That’s why I asked to meet you.”
    Kim the server arrived with their drinks. “Have you folks had a chance to look at the menu yet?”
    “Give us a few more minutes, will you, Kim?”
    “Let me know when you’re ready to order.”
    Tree addressed Melora. “Are you hungry?”
    “No. My stomach’s all funny. I didn’t know we would be eating. I don’t usually eat lunch.” Her hands fluttered over the menu as if trying to levitate it.
    “Okay, how am I supposed to help the Mounties,” Tree said.
    “It’s the dog.”
    Tree looked at her. “The dog?”
    Kim returned, her youthful face lighting with hope. “You folks ready yet?”
    Tree sighed and looked at the menu. “What about you? Sure you don’t want something?”
    “I’m fine, thanks.”
    The menu contained luncheon dishes such as Gone Fishin’ and Hook, Line and Sinker, and Anything Grows. Tree chose the Errol Fin.
    “That’s the grouper filet,” Kim said, nodding approvingly and then went off.
    Tree said, “You said something about dogs.”
    Melora made a face.