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Authors: John C. Ford
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pretty useless, while Tina waited for someone to pick up. The hypnotic tones of Petoskey’s light rock wafted through the newsroom.
“Five bucks says it’s a chick,” Tina said, then gave me a shushing motion. She listened for a second and hung up the phone.
“Warne and Lovell,” she said to me. “Ever heard of it?”
I had. “They’re lawyers.”
“Shysters,” Tina said grimly. “Wouldn’t you know it.”
Warne & Lovell had a prime location. The offices were on the second floor of Petoskey’s most “historic” building, above a restaurant called Tellers that had been converted from a bank. My mom and dad went there for anniversary dinners.
Tina blared a playlist of “Angry Songs” on the way over while I told her what I knew about Warne & Lovell. It wasn’t much. It was the town’s first law firm, and Mayor Ruby had been a big shot there before he left to become a judge, and then on to politics. I figured Tina would know more about the place than I did, being a reporter and all, but she told me she’d just moved to Petoskey six months ago and was still catching up on everything.
We parked on Main Street—it took my ears a minute to adjust to the calm after the radio died out. Tina threw her gum into a gutter on the way to the entrance, which had a sign noting that the firm had been established in 1937. We took the elevator to the second-floor office.
“What exactly are we going to say to them?” I asked. “‘We know Mitch Blaylock was murdered and were just wondering if you might have done it?’”
Tina snapped her sunglasses together as the elevator door opened. “We’ll think of something. C’mon.”
The office had blood-red carpeting and smelled of flowers. A woman sat at the reception desk, wearing a headset. She addressed us in a whisper: “Can I help you?”
“Hopefully,” Tina said. “Somebody in your office was in touch with a man named Mitch Blaylock in the past week or so. Do you know who that might be?”
“I’m sorry, there’s no Mitchell . . . whoever here.”
“Yes, we know—”
The phone was ringing. The receptionist gave us a saccharine smile and raised a finger, begging patience. She eventually patched the call through, then made a showy effort to re-engage with us, as if getting back to a nettlesome problem of advanced trigonometry.
Tina had lost patience with her already. She slapped her reporter’s notebook on the counter and said, “How about this—is Warne around? Or maybe Lovell?”
“Mr. Lovell is no longer with the firm,” the woman said, basking in superior knowledge. She dialed a number, swiveled, and mumbled something about “Mitch Blayless” into her headset. “Ms. Warne will see you in a minute,” she said finally, with a sour look on her face.
We headed to the guest chairs. “Bitch,” Tina muttered.
I recognized Kate Warne immediately. She appeared at the edge of the reception area in a short-short skirt, the light shining off her blonde hair the same way it had at the mayor’s party.
She nodded a greeting, looking us over carefully. Tina had lost her leather bracelet, which probably helped us pass muster. Also helpful, she didn’t have a lewd T-shirt on. Kate Warne didn’t seem to remember me from the mayor’s party, which made sense—she’d been far too occupied with the bartender.
“Why don’t we talk in my office?” she said, and strutted back down the hall she had emerged from. We passed a half-furnished office with cardboard boxes and flat spots in the carpeting from the legs of bygone chairs. We ended up in a corner office with a view of Main Street. The walls were bare except for some crisp black-and-white photographs. No curtains on the windows.
Kate Warne introduced herself as she poured a glass of water from a pitcher with lemon slices floating inside like lily pads. Her legs were long strings of muscle, and you could see almost all of them in that skirt. She sat straight at her desk, her head
“Five bucks says it’s a chick,” Tina said, then gave me a shushing motion. She listened for a second and hung up the phone.
“Warne and Lovell,” she said to me. “Ever heard of it?”
I had. “They’re lawyers.”
“Shysters,” Tina said grimly. “Wouldn’t you know it.”
Warne & Lovell had a prime location. The offices were on the second floor of Petoskey’s most “historic” building, above a restaurant called Tellers that had been converted from a bank. My mom and dad went there for anniversary dinners.
Tina blared a playlist of “Angry Songs” on the way over while I told her what I knew about Warne & Lovell. It wasn’t much. It was the town’s first law firm, and Mayor Ruby had been a big shot there before he left to become a judge, and then on to politics. I figured Tina would know more about the place than I did, being a reporter and all, but she told me she’d just moved to Petoskey six months ago and was still catching up on everything.
We parked on Main Street—it took my ears a minute to adjust to the calm after the radio died out. Tina threw her gum into a gutter on the way to the entrance, which had a sign noting that the firm had been established in 1937. We took the elevator to the second-floor office.
“What exactly are we going to say to them?” I asked. “‘We know Mitch Blaylock was murdered and were just wondering if you might have done it?’”
Tina snapped her sunglasses together as the elevator door opened. “We’ll think of something. C’mon.”
The office had blood-red carpeting and smelled of flowers. A woman sat at the reception desk, wearing a headset. She addressed us in a whisper: “Can I help you?”
“Hopefully,” Tina said. “Somebody in your office was in touch with a man named Mitch Blaylock in the past week or so. Do you know who that might be?”
“I’m sorry, there’s no Mitchell . . . whoever here.”
“Yes, we know—”
The phone was ringing. The receptionist gave us a saccharine smile and raised a finger, begging patience. She eventually patched the call through, then made a showy effort to re-engage with us, as if getting back to a nettlesome problem of advanced trigonometry.
Tina had lost patience with her already. She slapped her reporter’s notebook on the counter and said, “How about this—is Warne around? Or maybe Lovell?”
“Mr. Lovell is no longer with the firm,” the woman said, basking in superior knowledge. She dialed a number, swiveled, and mumbled something about “Mitch Blayless” into her headset. “Ms. Warne will see you in a minute,” she said finally, with a sour look on her face.
We headed to the guest chairs. “Bitch,” Tina muttered.
I recognized Kate Warne immediately. She appeared at the edge of the reception area in a short-short skirt, the light shining off her blonde hair the same way it had at the mayor’s party.
She nodded a greeting, looking us over carefully. Tina had lost her leather bracelet, which probably helped us pass muster. Also helpful, she didn’t have a lewd T-shirt on. Kate Warne didn’t seem to remember me from the mayor’s party, which made sense—she’d been far too occupied with the bartender.
“Why don’t we talk in my office?” she said, and strutted back down the hall she had emerged from. We passed a half-furnished office with cardboard boxes and flat spots in the carpeting from the legs of bygone chairs. We ended up in a corner office with a view of Main Street. The walls were bare except for some crisp black-and-white photographs. No curtains on the windows.
Kate Warne introduced herself as she poured a glass of water from a pitcher with lemon slices floating inside like lily pads. Her legs were long strings of muscle, and you could see almost all of them in that skirt. She sat straight at her desk, her head
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