Wicked Is the Whiskey: A Sean McClanahan Mystery (Sean McClanahan Mysteries Book 1) (5 page)

Victoria Hall agreed to meet with me that afternoon at her office at the Maryville, PA headquarters of John Preston Enterprises.

The perimeter of the former industrial campus was surrounded by rusting barbed-wire fences. Inside the fence there were six buildings, one in the center of the campus and the other five lining the river. There were also several idle construction vehicles sitting around mounds of gravel and uprooted earth. 

There was a security phone at the gate with a sign instructing visitors to call. I called. A buzzer sounded and the gate opened. I drove inside the gate, parked and walked to the front door of the main building, where I was buzzed in.

Inside, a woman sat behind a large chrome counter. Her hair was short and black, her movements precise and focused as she studied the paperwork on her desk. A nametag pinned to her shirt spelled “Rosie Ramirez.”

“Hello, Rosie Ramirez, I have an appointment with Victoria Hall.”

She looked up at me, all business.

“Sign the register, please,” she said, looking back to her paperwork.

“Some people know me as Sean McClanahan, famous local TV private eye,” I said smiling.

She pressed the buzzer on her phone, unimpressed.

“What?” said a gravely female voice through the speaker.

“Mr. McClanahan is here.”

“Send him up.”

“Take the elevator to the third floor,” said Rosie. “Ms. Hall’s office will be to your immediate right.”

I smiled, but she reciprocate.  

When the elevator doors opened on the third floor, I was greeted by a wall of windows to the left. They offered a fine view of the river and the majestic Maryville Bridge a few hundred yards away.

I turned to the right and stood at the doorway to Hall’s office. She sat behind her desk, studying her computer screen. She let me stand there 30 seconds — what seemed like minutes — before acknowledging my presence.

I used the time to study abstract paintings that adorned the walls. On one wall featured a large painting that depicted, I think, a baby grand piano with breasts sitting in a tree.

Finally, Hall rose and reached across her desk to shake my hand. She was no taller than 5’3” and probably weighed 200 lbs. She wore a bright red sweater and black slacks.

“Ms. Hall, I'm grateful you agreed to take time to meet me. My name is Sean —”

“Look, jackass, I did some checking on you. I’m only giving you a few minutes of my precious time to issue you a warning: This discussion in particular, and my business partner’s unfortunate demise in general, better not end up in your little TV reports. Now what do you want to know about Preston, the selfish little prick whose suicide has destroyed the business I built?”

She sat. I sat in a white leather chair across from her.

I’d done some checking on her, too. She got her MBA from the University of Pennsylvania, according to Forbes. She specialized in turning struggling companies around. Her early work was for smaller companies — bakeries, machine shops, small manufacturing companies — before she moved on to larger firms. Preston’s global firm was to be her crown jewel.

“You don’t sound as fond of the world’s leading relationship expert as I would have expected.”

“What’s there to be fond of? I made the twit. His business was sunk before I came in and built it into a multi-million dollar success. I managed 80 staff members, who only seem to know how to complain, especially the thankless morons in customer service and order entry. And what do I get for all my hard work? The little prick jumps off a bridge.”

“You’re certain he took his own life?”

“Well, he was the one who jumped, wasn’t he? I had big plans. We were in the process of renovating this dump of a factory to make it a showpiece.”

“The barbed wire fences offer an inviting touch.”

“Look, smartass, the contractor kept those fences up to protect his equipment and materials during construction — and now everything is halted. Hell, I had plans to revitalize this entire riverfront. Now my dream is gone. The prick.”

“Why don’t I save us both some time,” I said. “I’m looking for a woman named Erin Miller.” 

“Never heard of her.”

“Elizabeth Preston conceded that John may have had dalliances with other women, and also that you were keen to keep them out of the media.”  

“That’s who you’re working for? Elizabeth Preston is a kook. She tell you why she hired you?”

“She thinks Preston was murdered.”

“She needs to believe that, you moron. Preston’s insurance won't pay on a suicide. She's broke. She spent every dime Preston ever gave her on that stupid mansion. She desperately needs the insurance pay out.”

“Won’t she inherit John's share of this business?”

“There’s nothing to inherit, genius. Sure, we've had an odd surge in orders since Preston died — who knows why there are so many sickos in the world — but it will dwindle down and die off soon. Preston screwed both of us good.”

“Both of you?” 

“His suicide nullified my $5 million insurance payoff, too — which was designed to protect me, his partner, in the event that the world’s leading relationship expert were to croak. I get nothing — except for whatever we can liquidate out of this dump. Now can we move this little interview along so I can get back to work?”

“You and your employees told the Maryville chief of police that Preston was depressed?”

“Sure, he was a moody little bastard.”

“What was he going to discuss at his press conference?”

“What press conference?”

“Elizabeth told me he had scheduled an impromptu press conference. She said she had plans to meet him for lunch the day of that was going to have the conference — that he had been happier and more excited than she’d ever seen him — but he never showed.”

“I don’t know anything about any press conference. All I know is the little prick ruined everything.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“That assclown hadn’t been in his office for weeks.”

“You didn’t have any meetings with him before he died?

“Are you listening? I hadn’t talked to him in weeks. He appeared hung over half the time I did see him. He spent a lot of time in his private apartment sleeping it off.”

“You wouldn’t have a record of the women who visited — a registry like the one I just signed?” I said.

“This isn’t the Hilton Hotel. He probably brought most of them in through the back door anyhow.”

“I imagine the press would have a field day with that information,” I said.

“I couldn’t care less about the world finding out about Preston’s peccadilloes now, with the exception that it would kill the surge of business that is coming in. That money is needed to help us shut this place down and sell off the assets.”

“So he had some magic with the ladies?”

“I can’t explain it,” said Hall. “They waited for him after his speeches and seminars, phoned this office constantly, mailed letters, and you wouldn't believe the email he got.”

“What kind of email?”

“Women telling him they were in love with him, that they needed to talk with him, that they wanted to avail themselves to him. It was sickening.”

“He didn’t receive any hate mail?” I said.

“Oh, he got his fair share of negative mail, too. He agitated about half as many people as he made happy. There were women's groups who felt that he marginalized and stereotyped women and men's groups who felt he did the same to men — not that I give a whit.”

“And of all these women, you have no recollection of any woman named Erin Miller?”

“Look, I had to cover up so many of the little bastard's relationships — I had to make some sizable payoffs to keep a good many of them out of the tabloids — I can't remember every one of them.”

I stood and walked over to the window to take in the view.

“You said he got a lot of phone calls from strangers?” I continued. “You keep records of who called?”

“Do I look like Homeland Security? Do you know how many people have contacted this business since I got here four years ago?”

“But there are records?”

“My staff spent hours tracking information down for the Maryville police. We kept a file of the letters he received in the mail. We also printed out all of the emails that were sent to him through our general email address and his company email address.”

“Mrs. Preston told me John’s laptop and cell phone were provided through the company?”

“Yes, but we gave his laptop to the chief. She already had his business cell phone. She retrieved that from his vehicle.”

“You can share all of John’s letters and email with me?”

“Why the hell should I give it to you?”

“Because I'll promise to leave you alone as soon as you do.”

“You sure do know the way to a woman's heart,” said Hall.

She picked up her phone and ordered Rosie to prepare the information.

“You’re in luck,” she said. “Rosie made a duplicate copy of all of Preston’s information, but the police chief only wanted the one set. It will be waiting for you downstairs as you leave.”

I stood up and headed toward the door. Before I exited, I turned back to Hall. 

“I have one other request.”

“What?”

“I’d like to see John’s penthouse apartment before I go.”

“Oh, hell, whatever.”

She pressed a button on her phone.

“Rosie, show McClanahan Preston’s apartment before he leaves.”

“Yes, Ms. Hall,” said Rosie through the speaker.

“Are we done here?” said Hall.

“Just one more thing?”

“What’s that?”

I pointed to the abstract painting hanging on the wall across from her.

“Is that a piano with breasts sitting in a tree?”

Rosie had the requested materials packed and ready to go when I returned to the lobby.

“You can pick the box up after I give you a tour of John’s apartment,” she said walking to the elevator.

She was silent as we rode the elevator to the top floor. Was it my breath?

She unlocked the door and we walked inside. The apartment was a modest efficiency design — the size and shape of an extended-stay hotel room with a bed on one side, a couch and chair on the other and a kitchenette and bathroom in the back.

More noteworthy was that clothing and couch pillows and torn newspapers and magazines were strewn about the living room floor. The closet door was open, the blinds covering the single-pane window that offered a view of the Maryville Bridge 200 yards away, tattered and bent.

“This is Mr. Preston’s private residence at the office building,” said Rosie as we entered the living room.

“Luxurious,” I said. “And clean.”

She walked about the room adjusting lampshades, closing drawers and moving pieces of furniture back into place. I followed behind. Suddenly, she grabbed my arm, pulled me into the closet, flipped on the closet light and quietly closed the door.

“We must stop meeting like this,” I said.

“Quiet,” she said. “It wouldn’t surprise me if this closet is bugged, too. My husband and I watch your news reports. Did you come to investigate John’s death?”

“No,” I said. “I’m looking for a woman John may or may not have known. Do you know a woman named Erin Miller?”

“No, but I know more about John than anyone here. I was his first employee. And, until Hall arrived, John relied on me to run all aspects of the business. I guarantee you he did not take his own life. But we cannot talk here. I will tell you more as soon as I can, but do not attempt to contact me. I will contact you.”

I nodded.

She opened the closet door and continued the tour.

“Is there anything else you want me to show you?” she said.

“I’m good,” I said.

She turned, eager to usher me back out the door. I followed her. She didn’t speak as we took the elevator down to the lobby — didn’t say a word until she walked behind the counter and sat in her seat.

“Please don’t forget the box of contents you requested,” she said.

I picked up the box.

“Thanks for the tour,” I said and left.

Maureen and I had just sat in the booth in the back of the pub, when my Uncle Mick entered through the front door.

His John Wayne frame eclipsed the light coming through the front door. He ran his large paw through his perfectly trimmed white hair — congressman’s hair — then walked up to the waiters' station and poured himself a mug of coffee.

“Coffee?” he said, turning to us. We nodded. He filled three mugs, brought them to us with a silver creamer, then pulled up a chair and sat.

“I hear you’ve had a rough couple of days,” he said, as he wrapped his paw around his coffee mug and took a good swallow. 

Mick had been legendary Commander of Pittsburgh's Major Crimes Unit, though many years before I became a homicide detective. He played a key role in guiding my success as a detective.

“It’s my fault they got off with Erin Miller,” I said, pouring some cream in my coffee and stirring it.

“You’re being hard on yourself,” he said. “You got clunked on the back of the noggin with a blackjack. So what have you learned so far?”

I brought him and Maureen up to speed on everything I’d experienced — and how I needed their assistance to search Preston’s records for any potential lead.

“Makes sense to me, Kid,” said Mick.

He called anyone younger than him “kid.”

“I can’t tell you how many cases we cracked by finding pieces of paper in people’s garbage,” he continued. “Let’s get to work.”

For the next few hours, we read through print outs of Preston’s phone logs, email and letters. At one point, Mick began laughing out loud.

“There are some nutty notes in here, but this one's a beauty,” said Mick. “This woman wants to know if Preston will come to her house and tell her husband how to be a better man.”

I smiled. Mick read the letter:

“’Dear Mr. Preston, my husband won't pick up his socks, he won't help with cleaning the house in any way and yet he is in an amorous mood every night. I have read all of your books and watched all of your videos. I've tried to get my husband to do the same, but he refuses. So perhaps if you came here in person, you could talk to him.’”

“If he were my husband, I’d tell him where to put his socks,” said Maureen.

“My missus, rest her sweet soul, never had any challenges in telling me where to put my socks,” said Mick.

Mick was right about many of the emails and letters being nutty. Many writers thanked and praised Preston for helping them find happiness in their relationships. Some praised him for being a good role model to millions, by being so devoted to his own wife — if they only knew.

There were negative email messages and letters, too, just as Victoria Hall said. Some feminist groups wrote him on formal letterhead, saying he was setting back relations between men and women by stereotyping women. Others came from men's groups that criticized Preston for doing the same thing to men.

Several pots of coffee later we still had found nothing useful.

“Let’s take a break and think this thing through for a minute,” said Mick. “Preston is found dead in Maryville, where his company is located, of an apparent suicide. Erin Miller says she knows Preston and tells the Maryville police chief he’d never commit suicide. The chief dismisses her. Big Tony and Little Terry, two local toughs, apparently follow her from Maryville to the pub, where they abduct her. Chief Sarafino dismisses you. You return to the pub and receive a phone from Erin, telling you it was all a prank. You trace the call to a pay phone in Maryville. You return, but Morton and Wilson won’t talk. A black Crown Vic nearly mows you down. After talking with J.W., you return to Maryville to talk to Peter Hartley, who witnessed Preston’s death, and he won’t talk, either.”

“Meaning that it’s the least talkative town I’ve ever visited?” I said, smiling.

Mick Nodded.

“Now you all know I’m no rocket scientist, but the fine town of Maryville is clearly the nexus in this whole situation,” said Mick. “Look, Elizabeth told you Preston had left her four years prior and admits there were other women. Well, what if Preston had got especially close with Erin Miller? What if Elizabeth learned about it and her jealousy caused her to kill her husband?”

“It’s plausible,” I said, “but Elizabeth doesn’t strike me as a killer. But Preston left her four years ago. If she was going to seek revenge because of his lady friends, why would she wait four years? Besides, staging a suicide is not for the faint of heart and if Preston did commit suicide, she will be out a cool $5 million in an insurance payout.”

“Then what about Preston’s partner, Victoria Hall?”

“I know very little about Hall except that she has been a very successful business executive who is greatly disliked by Elizabeth and her employee Rosie,” I said. “Rosie told me she will be in touch with me to share some information about Hall.”

“That’s interesting,” said Mick. “Maybe Preston was going to use his press conference to announce something embarrassing to Hall — or harmful to the company she built up. That might make her mad enough to take some action.”

“But why kill your bread winner?” said Maureen. “Without Preston, Hall had no company to run.”

“An interesting point,” said Mick. “But let’s say Preston had it out with Hall and told her he was going to tell the world. Her revenue would have been crushed anyhow. You can’t have the world’s leading relationship expert leaving his TV wife for a younger woman.”

“But Hall said business was booming since Preston died,” I said. “She attributed it to morbid curiosity and souvenir seekers.”

“Whatever the case, the business is going to go down one way or the other,” said Mick. “So maybe she whacks him. She certainly would have motive.”

“She’s a small woman,” I said. “Even though Preston was a slight man, I don’t see her tossing him over a bridge.”

“Well, maybe she has some hired hands.”

“Speculation is fun,” I said, “and it is a fun game for retired homicide detectives, but what I need now is information that can lead me to Erin Miller.”

“Well,” said Mick, “that’s what I’m getting at. Look, J.W. told you that Doc has identified some loose ends as he completes Preston’s autopsy. If the evidence shows Preston may have been killed — that is, if Doc can’t confirm that the manner of Preston’s death was suicide — then there is a killer among us.”

“Go on,” I said.

“Well, if that is the case, there are three potential suspects. The first is unknown, maybe someone who hated Preston’s work. However, suspects two and three would include Victoria Hall or Elizabeth Preston. Catch either one in a big lie and maybe you’ll have located your killer — a realization that will lead you to Erin.”

“Mick is right,” said Maureen. “You need to talk to Doc to find out what really happened to Preston.”

“And while you do that,” said Mick, “Maureen and I will keep searching through these records. There’s got to be a helpful lead in this pile of records somewhere.”