Skinny Dip by Carl Hiaasen

last year—three or four grand, wasn’t it?”
    Mrs. Shulman sneered. “Don’t get snide with me.”
    “There’s nothing in the rules says I can’t keep reptiles.”
    ” ‘Dangerous pets,’ it’s right on page one nineteen.”
    “Your dog’s bitten four people,” Rolvaag pointed out. “My snakes haven’t hurt anybody.”
    “Disturbing the peace, then. Those helpless mice screaming and moaning while God’s breath is strangled out of them—it’s horrible. I had to double up on my Xanax, thanks to you.”
    “They’re big fat rats, Nellie, not Stuart Little. And, by the way, that poison your exterminator uses? It makes their little tummies explode.”
    Mrs. Shulman wailed, backpedaling.
    “Why don’t we leave this to the lawyers,” Rolvaag said.
    “You’re a sick, sick, sick bastard. No wonder you’re not married anymore.”
    “And no wonder your husband went deaf.”
    Somewhere in the parchment fissures of Mrs. Shulman’s face, her eyes narrowed. “You’ll be gone by July, smartass.”
    “Keep Petunia on her leash,” Rolvaag advised, “and you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
    After a late breakfast he drove to the office and showed Captain Gallo the letter from the police chief in Minnesota.
    “Very humorous,” Gallo said. “Where the fuck is Edina?”
    “Twin Cities area.”
    “Didn’t they write a song about it? ‘Nothing could be finer than to be in your Edina in the morrr-ning!’ “
    Rolvaag said, “I’m serious about taking the job.”
    “Cut it out.”
    “I want to live somewhere normal.”
    “And die of fucking boredom. Sure you do.” Gallo handed him a scrap of paper. “Guy name of Corbett Wheeler called. That’s his number.”
    “Mrs. Perrone’s brother.”
    “One-thirty in the morning, kangaroo time, he’s wide-awake,” Gallo said. “Wants to talk to someone ASAP. Says it’s important.”
    Rolvaag had been trying to locate Corbett Wheeler since Saturday afternoon. “I’ll call right now,” the detective said.
    “Make it collect.”
    “You’re kidding.”
    Gallo shrugged. “That’s what the guy said—’Be sure and call collect.’ “
    Somewhere in the hills of New Zealand, Joey Perrone’s brother picked up on the first ring. Karl Rolvaag half-expected him to sound like the flaky Aussie who wrestles crocodiles on TV, but Corbett Wheeler hadn’t lost his flat American accent.
    “Are you the one in charge of the case?” he asked.
    “That’s right,” Rolvaag said.
    “Then listen up: My little sister did not get drunk and fall off that cruise ship,” Corbett Wheeler declared, “no matter what her husband told you. And she didn’t take a dive, either.”
    The connection was fuzzy, and Rolvaag heard his own voice reverberate when he spoke. “I understand this must be hard for you. Would you mind a few questions?”
    “It was in the Boca newspaper. That’s how I found out—a friend of Joey’s called to tell me.”
    Rolvaag said, “We’ve been trying to get hold of you since Saturday. Your brother-in-law gave me a couple of phone numbers, but they were no good.”
    “Just like my brother-in-law,” Corbett Wheeler said. “He is a fuckwit and a reprobate.”
    “When’s the last time you saw him?”
    “Never met the man, or even spoke to him. But Joey’s given me an earful—I wouldn’t trust the guy alone with my bowling ball, that’s what a horndog he is.”
    Rolvaag had heard similar opinions from Joey’s friends, though none of them hinted that Charles Perrone was deeply involved with anybody but Charles Perrone.
    “You’re suggesting that Chaz had something to do with your sister’s disappearance?”
    “Bet the farm on it,” said Corbett Wheeler.
    “It’s a long way from adultery to homicide.”
    “From what Joey told me, he’s capable of anything.”
    Rolvaag heard sheep lowing in the background.
    “Maybe we should talk in person,” he suggested.
    “Honestly, I don’t travel much,” said Mrs. Perrone’s brother,