“Surely,” he said. “The cost is eight dollars. Have a seat”
I sat. He covered me with a cape.
“Anything special?” said Morton.
“Just a trim,” I said.
“A trim’s only four dollars,” he said.
We sat there in silence as Morton cut my hair.
“There’s talk about having an event to commemorate the fact that Lewis and Clark started their journey west right here in Maryville?” he said to Morton.
“That so?” said Morton.
“Maryville was once a town known for building wooden river barges,” said Albert to me. “Lewis and Clark had one built here and when it was done, they loaded it with provisions and set off down the Monongahela River and onward to the Ohio River into the new territory.”
“I’ve lived in Pittsburgh all my life and didn’t know that,” I said.
“They said that in those days the fishing on the Monongahela was incredible,” said Albert. “You could cast a rod with an earth worm and come up with a 30-pound bass or a catfish that could feed your family for a week.”
“I used to fish the Monongahela as a boy with my daddy,” said Morton. “By the time I was 20, it wasn't the same. The industrialization along the river damaged the water so bad, if you caught yourself a six inch catfish you were jumping for joy.”
He talked while clipping my hair expertly.
“A lot of folks forget how polluted Pittsburgh used to be,” continued Albert. “What hurt the rivers wasn’t so much the pollution and discharges from the mills. It was the acid that ran from flood coal mines that did the real damage.”
“Interesting,” I said.
“So what brings you to Maryville?” said Albert.
“I'm looking for a woman named Erin Miller,” I said. “She made a phone call from that pay phone across the street a little over an hour ago. Did you see her?”
They said nothing.
“This isn’t such a big town,” I continued. “I imagine an attractive young woman might stand out in the public square.”
Morton kept on clipping, but said nothing.
“Have you seen two men around town, one big with black curly hair, the other small with red hair?”
Morton shook his head.
“Right now, I have reason to suspect the woman is in trouble,” I said. “I need to find her.”
“We wish we could help you, but we saw nothing,” said Morton.
Morton shaved my neck with a straight razor, clipped the hair in my lobes and then dusted me off with talcum powder. I felt 10 pounds lighter. I gave him a 15 dollars and handed him my card.
“Please call me if you see anything,” I said before heading out the door.
Chapter #8
The white tile walls and floor inside Wilson’s Diner had cracked over the years — the red tables and countertops had faded — but the coffee smelled fresh and the small diner was clean and orderly.
A banana split pie, behind a glass cover, made my mouth water. The “special” board featured a T-bone dinner with a baked potato, green beans and coffee for only $8.75.
But there was no sign of Wilson.
I walked to the end of the counter and picked up that morning's paper and began to read the sports section. A few moments later, I heard a toilet flush and heard some large, pounding feet move their way up the steps from the cellar. I heard the kitchen sink turn on full blast, while somebody, probably Wilson, washed his hands in hot soapy water. I heard the water turn off.
Wilson appeared behind the counter, a big man who could be mistaken as the older brother of Pittsburgh Steeler’s football legend Mean Joe Green.
“Sorry, mister. Didn’t hear you come in.”
“No hurry,” I said. “That T-bone dinner looks great, but, considering I’ve not had my breakfast yet, may I have it with some eggs and hash browns?”
Wilson nodded.
“How you like your eggs?” he said.
“Scrambled with some peppers and provolone. A cup of coffee would be great, too.”
Wilson poured a fresh cup of coffee and set it in front of me, then walked over to the grill, his back to me. I poured in some fresh cream and took a sip. Delicious. The back of my head was still tender — the bumps still throbbed — but the fresh coffee made me forgot about it a little.
“Charming place you have here,” I said. “The world could always use more diners.”
He was a master chef at the grill. He retrieved a thick, fresh cut of T-bone from the fridge and tossed it on the grill, then went to work on the eggs.
“Well, I could use one less diner,” he said, laughing. “You want some toast?”
“No, thanks,” I said. “How long you had this place?”
“I bought it in ’73. Got laid off from the steel mills one time too many and decided I’d had enough. The old fellow who had it before me was ready to sell and we worked out a deal.”
He scrambled the eggs and mixed in the pepper, mushrooms and provolone and tossed the mix onto the grill, causing it to sizzle. A few moments later, he set a large plate before me with the most beautiful steak, eggs and hash-brown breakfast I’d ever seen.
“Need anything else?” he said.
“I’m looking for a woman,” I said. “Her name is Erin Miller. She made a phone call from the payphone across the street earlier this morning.”
“Don’t believe I’ve seen her.”
“She may have been with two men,” I continued, “one big with the black hair, the other small with red hair.”
“Sorry, haven’t seen them,” he said.
His eyes darted toward the front window.
I turned to look. There was nothing there.
“I'll be closing shortly,” he said.
My mouth was watering, but I had an uneasy sense.
“Why not make this a to go order,” I said.
Wilson got everything packed in a Styrofoam container and a white paper bag. He handed it to me and I paid him.
“The woman may be in trouble, Mr. Wilson. Can you call me if you see her?”
I set my card on the countertop, then walked out the door.
“Have a good day,” said Wilson as he closed the door behind me.
As I walked down Main Street, I heard a car motor roar. To my right, I saw a black Crown Victoria coming at me.
I dived onto the sidewalk across the street and tumbled behind a light pole just before the car roared past. The car made a quick turn onto a side street before I could see its plate or its driver.
I got to my feet and dusted myself off.
My meal didn’t fare so well. It was spread all over the sidewalk.
So that’s what John Preston’s demise was really about, I thought: a conspiracy to keep me from eating.
Chapter #9
The Pioneer Pub & Grill sits on a side street in Washington, PA a half block from the Washington County court house — nearly 30 miles from downtown Pittsburgh. It is the establishment of choice for the town’s judges, prosecutors and others in Washington County’s law-enforcement community.
Long-time Washington County Coroner J.W. Green was a fixture there.
“Well if it isn’t my favorite pub-owning PI,” he said, his capped teeth glowing brightly as he shouted at me from his regular spot in the back of the restaurant.
Green, a mortician by trade, owned three funeral homes, a half dozen fast-food restaurants and a chain of coin-operated car-washes. Unlike Allegheny County, which encompasses Pittsburgh, the smaller counties surrounding do not require their coroners to be medical doctors, J.W. ran for, and won, every election to his seat going back to the late 1980s.
“Good to see you, J.W.” I said as I approached him. “The regular?”
He nodded. I asked the bartender to put a Johnny Walker Red on my tab and an iced tea for myself.
“To what do we owe this honor?” he said, playing to the cast of regulars sitting on either side of him.
“May I have a few private words with you
?” I said.
“Let’s go to my satellite office,” he said leading me back to the billiard room, two glasses of scotch in his hands. He flipped on the light and closed the glass pocket doors shut.
“I had a visit by a woman this morning who told me she’d visited you this morning.”
“Yes, a lovely girl,” he said. “She approached me in the hallway as I was leaving the municipal building. I’d initially thought she was Preston’s sister or some distant family member, but she said that wasn’t the case. She wouldn’t tell me how she knew Preston — just that she knew him.”
“What did you talk about?” I said.
“She had an odd story to tell. She said he would never take his own life and that she could prove he was murdered. She wanted me to come to her house to show me the evidence?”
“Your response?”
“I was taken aback. All of us working on cases involving famous people have calls and visits from unusual people. I was at first disappointed that a lady as lovely as she would fall into that camp, but I have to admit she didn’t seem like an oddball entirely. She seemed very convincing. I told her to take any concerns she had to the Maryville Chief of Police. As you know, all we coroners care about is determining the cause and manner of death. If foul play is involved, that is the business of the police and district attorney’s office.”
“She didn’t happen to leave any contact information with you?” I said.
“No, our discussion was brief,” he said. “There was nothing I was able to share with her. And, as far as I’m concerned, the Preston case is pretty clear — regardless of what any conspiracy theorists would like to think. Goodness, we have been getting enough grief from Elizabeth Preston, who refuses to accept what her husband did.”
“I have experienced Elizabeth’s persistence first hand,” I said.
“Well, we’re still awaiting toxicology results, but the preliminary findings are pointing to a fairly clear suicide.”
“I visited the Maryville Chief of Police but she refused to share any details with me.”
“There isn’t much to share, really. She has a witness who saw Preston park his car on the bridge then jump — a night fisherman, sitting on a sunken river barge below the bridge, saw the whole thing. So it’s cut-and-dried. As for the medical examination, we hired Doc Milaskovich to do that, as our county always does with the big cases. Almost everything he found is consistent with suicide.”
“Almost?”
“Doc tells me the cause of death is drowning, but says the manner is not clear enough to be suicide based on his evaluation,” said J.W. “He identified a few things that could potentially point to other manners of death, but you know how incredibly thorough Doc can be.”
I laughed out loud. I’d known Doc many years and J.W.’s statement was true.
“What things?” I said.
“Well, he said the buttons were torn on Preston’s suit. Preston wore brand new shoes that had scuff marks on the toes. Doc says it’s possible the buttons could have got snagged on debris in the water and that the shoes could have got scraped when Preston was submerged.”
“Interesting.”
“But the Maryville chief tells me Preston’s business associates said he’d been depressed,” he said. “Her report is not yet final, but like I said, this one has suicide written all over it.”
“As interesting as Preston’s case may be, all I’m interested in is finding Erin Miller. Did you see her get into a car? Is there anything you know of that could help me find her?”
“Sorry, no. She approached me in the hallway as I was headed out the front door of the municipal building to a meeting. If not for that, I might have gone with her to her home — she was quite a looker. I offered to walk her out, but she hesitated.”
“Hesitated?”
“Yeah, like she was worried about going out the front door. After we parted, she walked out of the back of the building.”
“Since we’re on the subject, any chance of you sharing the name of the witness who saw Preston jump?” I said.
“That is information is not public information as of yet. The police report is not complete. This person’s name is not intended to be shared with civilians.”
J.W. grinned, his teeth glowing.
“There may be a Johnny Walker Black Label in it for you.”
His grin widened.
“What I meant to say is there may be a Johnny Walker Blue Label in it for you.”
He laughed.
And then gave me the witness’s name.
Chapter #10
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 si
tting 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.
Chapter #11
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.
Wicked Is the Whiskey: A Sean McClanahan Mystery (Sean McClanahan Mysteries Book 1) Page 3