Free The Morgue and Me by John C. Ford Page A

forest had been playing a vital role for Mother Nature, absorbing rain and sheltering the bluffs from storms on the lake. When the spring rains came, the bluffs crumbled right down. It was the worst environmental disaster in the history of Michigan. The entire twelfth fairway—the part on the town seal—slid into Lake Michigan. Just like that, Petoskey’s natural wonder had become a mudslide.
    That was four years ago, so the bluffs were wiped out before Tina even applied to the paper. I guess research wasn’t her strong suit.
     
     
    In the clubhouse, lacquered wooden benches circled a huge fireplace in the center of the lofted room. To the side, newspapers hung from wooden racks near a cluster of stuffed chairs. The place would have felt pretty cozy except for the dead animal heads peering down from the walls.
    We wandered down a hallway to the management office, which had a glass door with the names of club officials stenciled onto it. Inside, a beefy man with a tattoo on his neck manned an antique reception desk that cramped his giant body. Behind him was an oil portrait of a slick man in a power tie, gazing importantly into the distance.
    The guy at the desk was reading something with a pencil at ninety degrees to his temple, about like you’d do with a gun if you were highly depressed. Maybe the job was getting to him.
    Tina groaned.
    “What?”
    “Guy I dated,” she said. “Perfect.”
    She inhaled deeply and charged ahead. Up close, I could see the receptionist’s tattoo (a dagger) and the thing he was reading ( Pro Paintball Monthly ). I wondered how things had ended between him and Tina and braced myself for fireworks.
    “Hey, Tina,” he said with surprising tenderness.
    “Hi, Bob. Guess I’m the last person you expected to see walk through that door.”
    He shrugged boyishly. “You could say that.”
    “Well, good to see you.” Tina grabbed my shoulder, breaking the mood. “Anyway, I decided to start robbing cradles, so say hi to Chris.”
    Bob chuckled and shook my hand with something that felt like a Thanksgiving ham.
    “Any bigwigs available?” Tina asked, thumbing back to the names on the door.
    “You need an appointment,” Bob said apologetically. “They aren’t around anyway, though.”
    “Can we schedule something?” I said.
    “Sorry, you’d need to call their secretaries.” Bob motioned to the slick guy in the painting. “That’s the president, Alexander Corbett. If it’s something important, you probably want to talk to him. Whaddaya need, anyway?” He looked down at his magazine as soon as the question escaped his mouth. “Not to be nosy.”
    “Don’t sweat it,” Tina said. “We’ll call ahead sometime.”
    She gave him a smile, which he seemed to like, and then we left Bob, the tender tattooed muscleman, to his paintball. As we left, the oil image of Alexander Corbett watched over him like a father giving him an inferiority complex.
    “Get me a drink,” Tina said outside the office. “Quick.”

10
    S he pulled me back through the lodge area with the huge fireplace, where we spotted a bar and grill on the far side of the room. The place was called Putters, with tables covered in green linen and paintings of fox hunts. Tina made a beeline for the bar, tended by a chubby black guy who was clearing the empty glasses of a sporty young couple.
    Tina ordered a Bloody Mary. I got a Coke and asked her what the deal was with Bob.
    She waved it off. “Nothing really. He’s a nice guy. Too nice, but I should have been happy with him—usually I’m an asshole magnet.”
    Our drinks came then. Tina thanked the bartender and crunched into her celery stalk. The guy to the side of us was getting up. He wore sunglasses and one of those hats worn by paperboys about a hundred years ago. And old men in Italy. And American guys who think they should be Polo models. His date/wife/fellow-Polo-model was putting her purse on her shoulder while they debated the matter of who had their