The midday sun shined gently through the blinds meeting barely tangible lines of wafting cigar smoke expelled from the jutting mouth of one Mathew Renalds. The lines of the text from the local Vermont Vanguard's Sunday edition were all but illegible by the glare from behind, but the somewhat more bolded crossword puzzle, half-solved, was easier to make out.
Lazily hung in his chair, Mr. Renalds reached down over his crossed legs for the cup of warm milk beside a mug of coffee, and gently poured a bit in, his eyes not leaving the crossword. Suddenly there was a creak of the floorboards outside, the equivalent of a doorbell for the small office of Renalds Private Investigations, yet the aforementioned PI didn't flinch.
The door opened and a somewhat stout man in pinstriped collar shirt and tweed overcoat, with a red tie as an accent, who Mathew Renalds immediately recognized as his younger brother as he set down the paper and put out his cigar.
"Hey, Joey. What brings you to t