Wicked Is the Whiskey: A Sean McClanahan Mystery (Sean McClanahan Mysteries Book 1) (4 page)

It was late in the evening when I arrived back to Maryville. I drove slowly across the Maryville Bridge with my truck windows open. The water below was serene as reflections from street lights danced across its surface.

I took the hard right at the end of the bridge and descended into the heart of town. I left the truck in the lot by the bank and walked down a narrow path toward the sunken river barge that lined the river bank — the barge that Morton and Albert told me about in the barber shop, where the night fisherman had been fishing the night Preston died.

As I walked to the edge of the sunken barge, I came across a man sitting in a fold-out chair. There was a cooler next to him and a camper's lantern burning bright on the ground. He had a line cast into the river with the rod tied to the arm of his chair. He nibbled on a sandwich and sipped coffee out of a thermos.

“Evening,” he said, chuckling. “Not much biting tonight. Everybody else gave up, but I have a sense they’ll be biting soon.”

I smiled.

“I never could muster the patience to be much of an angler,” I said.

“Have a seat on the cooler and cast a line. Got a spare rod in my truck.”

“Thank you,” I said. “But I didn’t come to fish. I’m looking for Pete Hartley. I’m told he’s a legendary night fishermen in these parts.”

He chuckled.

“I don’t know what you’ve been drinking but the legendary Peter Hartley is as successful outwitting catfish in the dark as he has been at wooing women and acquiring great riches. But he’s not here.”

“My name is Sean McClanahan,” I said, shaking his hand.

I hoped for him to tell me his name. He didn’t.

“What brings you all the way to our world-famous Maryville sunken barge at this late hour?”

“I’m a private investigator. I came to inquire about the death of John Preston.”

“I’ll be daggone,” he said, chuckling some more. “A big-city private eye come all the way to our little town to talk about Mr. Preston.”

“I understand that Mr. Hartley was fishing at this very spot the night that Preston went over that bridge,” I said. “I would like to hear firsthand what he witnessed.”

He took a long sip of coffee, then set the thermos in the arm of his chair. The water splashed gently along the side of the barge.

“Wish I could help you, mister, but Pete Hartley ain’t here.”

I was fairly certain the old man was Pete Hartley, but knew that the wily old fellow had no intention of talking with me. I tried to bluff him.

“Bill Morton told me I could find Mr. Hartley down here tonight.”

“That so,” he said. “Now I was fishing with Bill earlier tonight. Albert and Mr. Wilson were here, too. I imagine if Bill told you these things it would have arisen in our conversation earlier this evening. I’m thinking you are imagining things.”

He laughed hard, then began coughing.

“Damn coal mines,” he said. “Forty-two years under the ground and all I got to show for it is this damn cough.”

“I sure wish Mr. Hartley were here,” I said. “I’m trying to locate Erin Miller. She may be in trouble.”

“And you think this Mr. Hartley has some information that will help you find the young lady?”

How did he know she was a young lady?

“I don’t know what to think or where to begin,” I said. “That’s why I’m sitting on this sunken barge in the dark.”

“Well, maybe you’ve come to the right place, after all. Any time I hit a bad patch in life, I come here and cast a few lines. I always find the answer right here along these banks.”

I stood and shook his hand.

“Perhaps we’ll meet again soon,” I said.

“Nice to meet you,” he said.

He got a hearty bite on his line and gradually reeled in a fat catfish. He held it up to show me, then set it free.

I walked up the path to my truck too tired to wonder why everyone in Maryville was so unwilling to talk to me — particularly Peter Hartley, who witnessed the final moments of John Preston’s life.

I got back to the pub well after midnight. The pub had been closed and Maureen was at home.

I walked to the bar and poured myself a fresh pint of Guinness and set it on the table in my favorite booth. As it settled, I turned on the juke box and used my cell phone to order some of my favorite Irish tunes.

I headed back to the kitchen. I put some olive oil in a cast iron skillet and tossed in onions, mushrooms, green and red peppers, spinach and anything else I could find. I sautéed them for a spell, then cracked four eggs over top of them and sprinkled in some fresh mozzarella. As the eggs cooked, I cut two thick pieces of fresh-baked wheat bread, coated them with butter and put them in the broiler. I soon had a delicious meal and carried it out to my table and seated myself.

My Guinness had settled perfectly by the time I’d returned. I took a glorious sip, then devoured my breakfast/lunch/dinner. I began feeling so grand, I poured a second pint and returned to my seat to think through the day’s unusual events.

Who in the heck was Erin Miller and where was she? And where did my new black and red haired pals come from? Were they driving the black Crown Vic that tried to run me down?

What was going on in Maryville? The chief wasn’t cooperative. Morton, Wilson and Hartley were awfully tight-lipped.

The Washington County Coroner didn’t give me much to go on. 

The only thing that was certain was that a perfectly-poured pint of Guinness sat before me. I took a hearty sip.

“Ramblin Rover,” by Andy Stewart, played next on the juke box. I’d met Stewart once while he was touring through Pittsburgh and enjoyed a few pints with him. The lyrics of his famous song filled me with calm:

“There are sober men in plenty,

And drunkards barely 20,

There are men of over ninety

That have never yet kissed a girl.

But give me a ramblin' rover,

From Orkney down to Dover.

We’ll roam the country over

And together we'll face the world.”

After a few minutes, drowsiness overcame me. I turned off the juke box and shut off the lights in the pub.

This rambling rover needed a good rest to face an uncertain world the following day.

I walked up the stairs to my apartment above the pub and slept like the dead.

On Monday morning, Bob Meinert was idling his pontoon boat in his dock on the Ohio River. He saw me as I walked down his driveway.

“It’s about time you checked out the new boat,” he said, smiling.

After he’d lost his wife of more than 50 years, Bob built his A-frame dream home on the banks of the Ohio River just north of Pittsburgh.

“Hop on board,” he said.

I sat in the chair next to his captain’s seat in the back of the boat and set two cups of coffee and a donut box on the table that sat between us.

“Nice boat,” I said, as I examined the leather upholstery and wood-trimmed ceiling. “I brought some provisions in case we get stranded.”

As I said earlier, Bob had many years of experience as one of Allegheny County’s most highly regarded homicide commanders with both the Allegheny County Police and the Allegheny County District Attorney’s Office. He co-founded CSI Corporate Security & Investigations, one of Pittsburgh’s most respected private-investigation firms, and had the database-search resources two-bit private eyes like me can only dream about.

He backed the boat out of the dock and we were soon enjoying a nice morning breeze as the boat powered its way down river.

I pulled one of two large cappuccinos and gave one to him, then picked up the other and begin to sip.

“Got a favor to ask,” I said.

“That’s good news because now I owe you one,” he said as he smiled and sipped the coffee.

I filled him in on all of my experiences to date.

“And I thought my weekend was filled with activity,” said Bob, laughing.

“What do you think?”

“I know of the big man and small man who visited you at the pub.”

“You do?”

Bob nodded.

“They are a couple of low-to-mid-level mobsters, whose ancestors had been local toughs,” he said. “Both men are mid-level associates, who have their hands in the typical mob activities — loan sharking, prostitution, numbers and drugs. The big man’s name is Tony. He is the enforcer. The little man’s name is Terry. He is called ‘the chemist.’ He has been known to set up small drug operations and sometimes uses narcotics to kill.”

“Lovely,” I said.

“Big Tony and Little Terry have kept trying to go big in Pittsburgh but the feds always shut them down before they could get rolling,” said Bob. “It looks like they’re finally making some progress now that the feds have shifted resources away from organized crime activities toward counter terrorism.”

“Because of 911 and growing terrorist incidents in America, no doubt?”

“Yes, unfortunately. Look, the Mafia blossomed during Prohibition in the 20s and 30s under Prohibition. When it was repealed, the mob had to expand into other areas — gambling, loan-sharking, prostitution, protection rackets and illicit drugs. By the late 1960s business was booming and the feds finally began moving in.”

“The 1970 RICO act?”

“That’s right. It allowed prosecutors to go after crime families and their sources of revenue, both legal and illegal. That act, along with stiff penalties for distributing drugs, led to the Mafia’s downfall. To avoid lengthy prison sentences, mob members began breaking their sacred codes. They joined the Witness Relocation Program and testified against their own.”

“The good old days,” I said, laughing.

“During the 80s and 90s, several high-level mobsters were convicted and sent away for life,” continued Bob. “Those who weren’t sent away are aging or are no longer among us. But since the terrorist attacks on 911, significant resources have been moved away from organized crime. Add to that the heroin epidemic gripping the nation and small time toughs have seen no shortage of opportunity to grow their business everywhere, including right here in Pittsburgh. However, the heroin problem has finally got so bad the feds are finally starting to crack down.”

“Do you know where Tony and Terry might be holed up?”

“I don’t. Though if Erin Miller said she saw the two men in Maryville — and a black Crown Vic like the one that tried to run you down in Maryville — I imagine Maryville is the first place to look for them.”

“All I care about at the moment is finding Erin Miller,” I said. “And that is the favor I have to ask you. Can you run some searches through the database services you subscribe to? Erin told me she and Preston lived in Donora. That is all I have to go on.”

“Sure, I can help. Not to state the obvious, but did you check the white pages or search for her online?”

“Maureen and I did some online searching, but we found nothing. We found lots of Millers, but no Erin Millers in Donora, PA.”

“And nothing turned up on social media?” he said.

“Not a thing,” I said. “We couldn’t find anything about Erin. As for Preston, his social media was likely managed by his company. It was all about promoting the business. There was nothing on his personal life. It’s almost as if Preston and Erin Miller were trying to hide from the world.”

“Well, we’ll see what we can turn up. We’re not permitted to search credit reports, bank records or driver’s license records, but we can search criminal records, marriage records, birth records and many other things.”

“I want to know where Erin Miller was born, when she was born, where she went to school, everything,” I said. “I want to know her married name, maiden name or her real name. While you’re at it, I want you to find out everything you can about John Preston. I need an address. I need to find this woman pronto and make sure she’s OK.”

Bob nodded.

“As you can see, my semi-retired schedule is awfully full these days. I'll do it as quickly as I can. But there is one more thing you need to be clear on.”

“Yes?”

“The new crop of mobsters is a violent bunch. Tony and Terry don’t operate by the same moral code as the Italian Mafia did. They’ll kill you as soon as look at you.”

Elizabeth Preston’s home — the old Heinz family summer mansion — was magnificent. It was located in Squirrel Hill, a well-to-do community east of the city, where the steel and coal-mining barons erected spectacular homes.

I drove up the long, winding driveway and parked under the veranda. The mansion was modest summer home by the standards of Pittsburgh's 20
th
century industrial elite, but was a large, spectacular home by any other measure.  

I pressed the doorbell button and heard expensive bells chime. After a few minutes — about the point when I began to think no one was home — I heard footsteps approaching. The large oak door opened slowly.

There stood Mrs. Elizabeth Preston in a silk robe.

“Good morning,” she said, smiling. “Please come in.”

I followed her into a foyer the size of a racquetball court. Two grand staircases curled up either side of the room, a whole hardwood forest had been felled to carve the elaborate woodwork that lined them. We walked past the living room — a magnificent room with high ceilings, polished hardwood floors and expensive antique furniture — into the study. A small bar lined the side wall. Several leather-bound books adorned the shelves, which were built into three walls of the office.   

Elizabeth sat on a brown leather couch and patted the cushion next to her, inviting me to sit next to her. The belt on her robe unraveled and the top of her robe loosened. I had sense she might not be wearing anything beneath her robe.

“I’m so glad you agreed to take my case,” she said smiling.

I smiled. I still had no desire to take her case, but would raise the matter another time.

“I need more information about John.” I said. “Do you have access to his cell phone or cell phone records?”

“John’s phone was in his car and now in the possession of the Maryville chief. His phone was provided through the company so if you want access to his phone records, you’ll have to go to his business partner.”

“Victoria Hall?” I said.

“Yes.”

“How about his laptop computer?” I said.

“The company provided that, too. His computer may be at the office. I don’t know for sure. Good luck getting assistance from Hall though. She’s such a witch.”

“I’ll deal with her later,” I said. “But there is one other thing I need to ask you and it may be difficult for you.”

She smiled, eager to please.

“How was your marriage?” I said.

“My marriage?

“Did John have relationships with other women?”

Her face went pale.

“Why would you ask me that?” she said, her eyes beginning to tear up.

I told her what Erin Miller had told me — that she and John lived together in Donora, PA.

“Is it possible Erin Miller is telling the truth about John?”

“Are you suggesting John would cheat on me?”

“Maybe this woman is delusional,” I said. “But maybe she knew him some way.” 

Elizabeth began sobbing.

“Why do you have to be so mean?” 

I found the nearest bathroom and located a box of tissues. I brought the tissues out to her and set them on her lap. She pulled several tissues from the box and dabbed her eyes. Her robe loosened some more.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I need to find this woman and I need any information that can help.”

“This is so hard for me — so embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing?” I said.

Her crying turned into wailing.

“Don't you see how humiliating this is?” she said. “That we have been living a lie for so many years? That John left me to be with so many young pretty girls.”

“He left you?”

“Four years ago. I can barely talk about it. You must promise to tell no one.”

“Did you tell this to the Maryville chief of police?”

She nodded.

“Did the chief question your whereabouts the night John died?”

“Why would she do that?”

“Because John’s behavior with other woman makes you a potential suspect in his death?”

“Suspect! I would never hurt John.”

“John Preston was the world's leading relationship expert. You were his happy wife in his cable broadcasts and seminars. You're telling me it was staged?”

She wailed more.

“We loved each other once,” she said, trying to catch her breath. “We had to stay together in public for the sake of our clients. We’d helped so many people rekindle their love for each other. But he hadn’t lived in our home for four years. He had an apartment above his office in Maryville.”

“How many women was he involved with?”

“I don't know. He protected me from his other life. He never wanted to hurt me, so he protected me. He was not perfect, but I loved him.”

“Do you think he was involved with Erin Miller?”

“I don't know, I don't know, I don't know.”

She blew her nose again.

“Did John have any close friends he might have confided in who may have known Erin?”

“Close male friends, you mean? No. I used to be his closest friend.”

“Who might know?”

“Hall would know. She managed everything for him — even his bimbos. But she is a bad woman and not to be trusted. Did you know she is keeping all the money? I get nothing.”

“What money?”

“Hall told me that because John committed suicide, his insurance policy won't pay me the $5 million it would have paid if he’d died of natural causes or by accident. When he died, Victoria Hall became the sole owner of the firm they shared. She gets everything.”

“And you get nothing?”

“I was getting half of John’s salary, but that will dry up soon. Hall said his business is worthless now that he is dead, but I don’t believe anything she says. That’s why I think she killed him.”

Elizabeth began hyperventilating.

Hold me,” she said.

“What?”

“Hold me.”

She jumped off the couch and grabbed me. She pulled me back toward the couch and I was soon sitting next to her as she held me tightly.

“I will talk to Victoria Hall,” I said.

“He didn’t kill himself,” said Elizabeth. “You have to find the truth.”

After a few minutes, her breathing evened out. I was able to free myself from her clutches. 

As I stood, her robe belt caught against my clothes and pulled loose. Her bare lady parts, in all of their surgically-enhanced splendor, spilled into the room.

I was right about one thing. She was not a natural blonde.

At least I’d solved one mystery.