by John C. Ford
P.S. He had a partner. They used to meet at the pool, that’s all I really know. Mitch said he loved me, but he didn’t tell me much.
I still wasn’t coming up with any fresh angles.
It was getting pretty frustrating, and I wasn’t being very social, but Daniel and Mike hardly needed me for conversation. In the background of my musings, I heard Daniel asking Mike if they could go to the movies later.
“Yeah, pick one out of the paper,” Mike said. “Just make sure there’s lots of sex and violence.”
They used to meet at the pool . . .
But Dana had never seen Mitch there, and I doubt she would have missed him if he’d been there regularly. Mitch didn’t seem like a guy who would hang out at the pool, anyway. He liked to think of himself as a big shot, and the crowd at the pool wasn’t exactly high society, not like at the—
Of course.
Mike was washing the glasses at the sink.
“Can you stay with Daniel this morning?” I asked him.
A banner fluttered across the second story of the Old Clubhouse: WELCOME TO THE FIRST-ANNUAL PETOSKEY CELEBRITY PRO-AM. We rolled up in Tina’s Trans Am, the stereo blasting a profane Eminem song from her “Workout” playlist across the tranquil grounds of the resort.
“I really can’t believe we didn’t think of this before,” Tina said.
“Yeah, I know.”
It was pretty obvious: if Mitch had been hanging out at a pool, there was a good chance it would have been one at the New Petoskey Resort and Spa. He wasn’t a member, of course, but he might have known an employee from his days working there and gotten in that way.
“Maybe the employee was even his partner,” I had said to Tina when I’d raced over to the Courier from home. Two minutes later, we had piled in her car and started formulating our plan. Our best bet, we figured, was getting a list of current employees who were working at the club back when Mitch left.
Another tournament banner hung in the Old Clubhouse. Below it, men in pastel shirts and bright visors trafficked through, sipping coffee, checking watches, filling the room with a distinct energy. Some of them lined up at registration tables staffed by gray-haired volunteers. The tournament schedule tacked behind them showed that practice rounds started today.
I wanted to head straight up to Corbett’s office, but Tina wasn’t having any of it. She insisted on starting with one of Buddy the bartender’s Bloody Marys instead. He beamed at her as he put down her drink.
“There you go, darlin’. I’d love to chat, but we’re scrambling today.”
“Well, don’t be a stranger.” Tina winked at him as he disappeared into the kitchen.
A leader board inside the bar listed all the tournament participants. The mayor and the sheriff, I noticed, made the “Celebrity” column, which seemed to render the term meaningless.
“Not to be a drag,” I said, “but I don’t see how this is getting us anywhere. Let’s just go to the office and ask his secretary for the list.”
Tina drained her glass and raised her hand for another. “Chris, you may not remember, but that’s an ex-boyfriend of mine up in that office. It’s awkward. Plus, his secretary’s not going to just hand over that kind of info without asking the boss. Sometimes you’ve got to lurk around a little, wait for your chance to strike.” She stopped and cocked her head. “Did I make that up? Lurk before you strike. Write that down for when you’re older. It applies well for picking up chicks at the bar. You’ll thank me.”
It sounded like it applied well to stalking, but I didn’t say anything. Instead, when Buddy came back with Tina’s second drink, I flagged him. “Hey, do you know where somebody might run into Alexander Corbett, say, if they wanted a word but didn’t have an appointment?”
Tina slapped my arm, and Buddy cut us with a sidelong glance. “You two are up to something.”
“We might be,” Tina said. “We might be.”
Buddy sighed. “Well, not that my name would ever get mentioned, but somebody could probably just look out that big window over there and see the man out at the tenth tee. They could probably bump into him over there.” He wiped his hands on his towel. “Now, I got work.”
“See?” Tina said. “You lurk a little, you get your answers.”
“I’m not sure it was the lurking. I think it was more the asking.”
“Whatever. We’re lurking till I finish this drink.”
The golf carts were lined up behind the clubhouse, all keyed up and ready for any of the tournament participants to take. Tina and I hijacked one and cruised past the practice tees toward the back nine. A hundred yards down the cart trail, just past the bunker-rimmed ninth green, Alexander Corbett was flashing his pearly whites around a large tent. Something about his eagerly projected confidence made him easy to pick up, even from just the painting and the photograph from the Courier.
I’ve heard that lots of movie stars have huge heads. I don’t know about his acting skills, but Corbett was qualified in the head department. His giant helmet of black hair was gelled so thick I could almost see a reflection of the clouds in it. On his feet he wore tiny black loafers, equally shiny. In between, there was lots of tailored clothing.
“Let’s lurk for a minute,” I said.
Tina punched my shoulder. “Now you’re getting it.”
We pulled off the path and relaxed in the shade of the cart. The tent was a “Courtesy Station,” established for the golfers to pick up a drink or a sandwich before making the turn to the tenth tee. We nestled behind a catering truck, unnoticed by the blue-coated officials, last-minute landscapers, and caterers servicing the area. Corbett was yukking it up with a group of pros collecting bananas and Gato rades. Standing a full foot shorter than them, he talked excitedly in their skyward direction, looking as though he’d be happy to feed them grapes if only they’d ask. When they left, he whirled and gave an earful to a man carrying food trays to the tent.
“Dude looks like an asshole,” Tina said. She leaned back in her seat, surveying the elegant tenth fairway that rolled out ahead of us like Heaven’s front lawn. “So, what happened after they ruined the bluffs? Did this place even get into any trouble?”
“Not really.” I remembered pretty well how it all ended. It had consumed my parents for three months—three long months in which they went off on passionate tirades about the power of corporations, inadequate laws, and how Mother Earth went unrepresented in our judicial system. Family dinners had never been so boring. Even Daniel got a little tired of it after a while.
“Some environmental agency brought a lawsuit against the developers,” I said, remembering how my parents, after all their work to stop the construction that led to the disaster, had traded off days attending the trial. “If they’d lost, it would have bankrupted this place.”
“But they won?”
“Yeah. Mayor Ruby was actually the judge on the case. He ruled that it happened because of all the rain, not because of all the tree-cutting or the cheap drain system, which, according to my parents, is the real reason it happened.”
I could still see my dad’s face when he came home from court. My mom and I were home when he stomped into the kitchen, pale and stricken. Lies, dear. It’s just a bunch of lies, he had said, and I knew right away that the golf course had won.
“Mayor Ruby?” Tina said.
I nodded. “It was his last case before he ran for mayor.”
“Didn’t that make him kind of unpopular?”
“No. Businesses were depending on the tourism. They were all really happy the golf course survived. My parents think he ruled for the developers just so he’d win the election.”
“Politicians,” Tina said. “It figures.”
Corbett was alone under the tent, lining up water bottles with obsessive care.
“I’ve had bosses like this guy,” Tina muttered. “The insecure type. Probably wants to bone anything within a hundred feet.”
“You might wanna stay back then,” I said, and made fo
r the president of the New Petoskey Resort and Spa.
Tina chanced it.
21
Corbett checked his watch as we approached. Wind rippled the tent but his hair didn’t budge.
“Can I help you?” He looked Tina’s body up and down but otherwise didn’t bother to feign interest as we introduced ourselves.
“I know you’re busy,” Tina said. “We just need a quick word—”
“I’m sorry, but if you’re not credentialed you can’t be out on the course,” Corbett said. “It’s off-limits to anyone not participating in the tournament. Even under normal circumstances, it’s members only. Now, if you could return the cart.”
He fiddled with his gold bracelet, waiting for us to move along. Sweat glowed across his forehead, or maybe it was the hair gel melting down. A group of golfers came down the rise from the ninth green. I pegged a middle-aged man with a Hawaiian shirt as a local radio DJ, one of the “celebrity” players.
“It’s just a quick administrative request,” I said. “A list of your employees, from about two years ago.”
“We’re busy now,” he huffed, and was off to play host again.
Tina was still steaming when we got back in the cart. She punched the accelerator, then stomped on the brake. I jerked forward.
“No, this is bullshit,” she said.
“Tina, don’t.” Too late.
I couldn’t bring myself to follow her. Tina’s hair flowed behind her on her way over to ruin our chances of ever getting the list of employees. She stepped in front of the radio dude and said something to Corbett in a pointed way. Corbett gave the golfers a “one moment” gesture and barked something back. In no time they were into a full-on yelling match that I could hear bits and pieces of over the wind. Corbett’s side of it was threatening, and Tina’s side was vulgar. The golfers watched in stunned fascination, backpedaling away.
Corbett got on his walkie-talkie, and two seconds later a middle-aged security guy was leading her over to our cart, stashing her in the backseat. He drove us in silence toward the first tee, and Tina shot out of the cart before he even stopped in front of the clubhouse entrance.
The security guy smiled at me. “Spitfire, eh?”
“Give me two seconds,” Tina said.
We were standing under a moose head. The crowd in the clubhouse had multiplied by three.
“Where are you going?” I said.
“Just stay here.” She pointed to the bookshelves lining the walls. “Read a novel or something.”
She headed toward the executive offices. I wanted to stop her from doing something stupid like breaking into Alexander Corbett’s files, but something in Tina’s tone told me I shouldn’t mess with her at the moment. I found an empty chair by the magazine rack to wait her out.
“We playing skins?” a voice behind me said. It was Lawrence Lovell, in plaid knickers and pink stockings. Actual knickers. I couldn’t tell if he was serious or making an ironic comment on bourgeoisie sport fashion. Not ironic, I decided. I turned away quickly and hid my face behind a magazine.
“You’re on,” said one of the guys with Lovell. From all the clinking and clunking, it sounded like they were taking inventory of their golf bags.
“Twenty bucks a hole?” Lovell said.
The clinking stopped. A third guy whistled.
“Watch out, boys, he must have fixed that slice. Either that or they gave you a fat pension.”
They all chuckled, Lovell the hardest. “Yeah. Right before she put her foot in my ass.” So Lovell wasn’t hiding the fact that he was getting pushed out. Not to his golf chums, anyway. Somehow I doubted he’d told Tina about it when he got her into bed.
“Well, look who’s here,” Lovell said brightly, and I chanced a look.
Tina. She flashed me a thumbs-up signal before rushing over to give Lovell a distressingly intimate hug. I didn’t know what her signal meant, since she didn’t have any purloined files in her hands, and they probably would have squeezed out of her bag considering the force with which she and Lovell were rubbing up against each other.
“Hello to you,” she said, and kissed him on the lips.
Lovell introduced her around to his mates, who had prurient thoughts written all across their faces. He promised to catch up to them in a second.
“Great duds,” Tina said, and pulled the magazine down from my face. “Chris, you remember Larry.”
I shook his hand. “Christopher. Nice to see you.”
“Yeah.” He shook his wrist out. Maybe I had squeezed a little hard. “What brings you over here? Breaking news on the tournament?”
“Something like that,” Tina said. “Are you playing in it?”
“No, I’m afraid I’m not celebrity material. But members get to go on the practice rounds early in the week. They’ve got the course in top shape, so why not?”
He looked at me like I’d understand this principle perfectly. “Righto,” I said. “Why not, indeed?” I really wanted to slip in a comment about the knickers but I couldn’t make it work.
“So, as long as we’ve got you here,” Tina said, “could we ask you about Kate Warne?”
I didn’t like the thought of Tina spilling all our secrets to anyone, much less Lawrence Lovell. I prepared myself to interrupt at any moment, encouraged slightly by the alcohol smell on Lovell. Maybe he was plastered and wouldn’t remember this conversation in an hour.
“Is this about Mitch?” he said.
I gave Tina a nudge. “Not really.”
“She’s not married, right?” Tina said.
Lovell pulled a water bottle from his tank-sized golf bag and had a swig. “Nope.”
“Is she seeing anyone?”
Lovell listed backward a little. “Not me, if that’s where this is going.”
“I know that,” Tina said. Sex dripped from her words. She pulled a cigarette from her bag.
“I don’t think you can do that here,” Lovell said.
“Screw them. They hassled us.”
Lovell kissed her impulsively. “You’re priceless, babe.”
It seemed to satisfy Tina for the moment. “So, how does Kate get along with the mayor?”
“He used to practice at our firm, so he came by the office sometimes. They used to have some cases together. They were friendly. Where are you going with this?”
It might have been too late, but I didn’t want Lovell to get a firm idea that we suspected an affair between them. “Did you ever hear about Mitch having a partner?”
“Like a partner in crime?” Lovell laughed.
“Yeah. Like maybe somebody who used to work with him here?”
“Wouldn’t shock me,” Lovell said idly. “But I told you I don’t know anything about that.”
“Well, okay then,” Tina said.
Lovell sensed her dejection. “Good luck with your story, whatever it is.” He leaned in and nibbled her ear, at which point I turned away in horror. “Let me know if you figure out who shot JFK while you’re at it.”
A voice came from behind us—Bob the ex-boyfriend, walking over from the office area. “Hey, Larry, what’s up?”
“Bob!” Lovell happily shook his hand. “I should get going,” he said to us.
Tina pointed between them. “You guys know each other?” It had to be a little awkward for her, but her voice didn’t betray it.
“An old client,” Lovell said. He patted Bob on the shoulder and headed out to meet his friends.
“Uhh, Tina,” Bob said, looking at the cigarette she still had in her hand. “Sorry, but you can’t smoke in here.”
She kissed him on the cheek and we left.
Tina and I sat on the hood of the Trans Am in the parking lot.
“Why do you hate him so much?”
She was talking about Lovell. “Tina, he’s a loser. I wasn’t going to say anything, but Dana told me he’s, like, a gambling addict. Do you know that Kate Warne is kicking him out of the law firm?”
“Nobody wants a comp
any man, Chris. They’re dull.”
“Fine, but did you see those clothes?”
“What can I say? Preppy guys turn me on, especially rich ones. It’s always been that way—I can’t explain it.”
“Preppy’s one thing. Pink socks are another.”
She tucked her chin into her chest, playing coy. “Christopher’s so hot when he’s jealous. Oh, and now look at him blushing.”
“So, uh, what happened up in the office, anyway? Did you get some good news?”
“You saw Bob?”
“Big Bob the ex-boyfriend?”
She got off the hood. “Yep. Guess I didn’t burn that bridge too badly after all.”
“Why?”
“Do you promise to be nice to Larry first?”
“I promise.”
We got in the car. “Well, because Bob loves me dearly, tonight he’s going to stay late, go through the records that are supposed to be off-limits to him, and get us a list of employees from two weeks before Mitch Blaylock left the country club.”
Tina backed up and peeled out of the lot.
Mike had left me a note saying he’d taken Daniel over to his house. I did mail duty again (no more love letters from Abby) and headed over to join them. I hadn’t been going full-tilt on the supervisory front since my parents left, so I figured a relaxing afternoon with Daniel and Mike was in order. Maybe we’d even catch that movie, I thought, when I found the two of them on the back deck.
They were lounging in deck chairs with sunglasses on and their pasty stomachs exposed, playing Las Vegas tycoons. From what I gathered, Daniel was lecturing Mike on how he should collude with other local bookies to jack up his profits.
“It’s all in here,” Daniel said. He leaned over and produced a library book from his backpack. It was about a thousand pages long and called Anti-Trust Violations in Maturing Markets: A Case Study of the Petroleum Industry, 1873-1915. “Those robber barons knew what they were doing,” he said.
