Wicked Is the Whiskey: A Sean McClanahan Mystery (Sean McClanahan Mysteries Book 1) (7 page)

Brenda Carbonara had owned and operated the Tinny Town Lounge for more than 45 years. She and her husband opened the place to launder the proceeds of a long defunct numbers-booking operation. When her husband died 20 years earlier, she took it over and has run it as a legitimate business since.

But unlike any exotic-dancer club you’ve ever been to, the Tinny Town was imbued with feminine warmth — its atmosphere was more like a neighborhood pub than a place where women disrobed for money. It was very clean, for starters. And Brenda decorated the place for every holiday. 

I knew the place especially well. I worked there as a bouncer during my college years.

“Kid, this place hasn't changed a lick in four decades,” said Mick, a hint of mischief in his eyes.

“You expect me to believe you've not been here in the past four decades?” I said.

He smiled.

“I better go check things out while you tend to business,” he said.

Mick walked to the stage and sat in the front row, while I walked upstairs to Brenda’s office. Brenda was inside, holding a Camel cigarette in her left hand while crunching numbers on an adding machine with her right. She looked up at me like I was interrupting something very important.

“Mr. Sean McClanahan,” she said, as a smile crept into her weathered face. “You hardly ever visit anymore.”

She stood and hugged me, then sat down. I sat in the chair next to her.

“So what brings you here?” she said.

“John Preston,” I said. “I understand he may have visited your establishment?”

“As have numerous ministers, councilmen, judges and more prominent businessmen than I can count on all my fingers,” she said laughing.

She took a drag on her cigarette, then continued.

“Preston was a regular for a time, yes. The first time I remember him coming in, he was with Adam Clive and his crew of merry men. What a nut Clive is, though he's certainly good for business. Anyhow, he brought Preston one evening that would have to been two or three years ago. After that Preston often came by himself.”

“Clive told me Preston was smitten with one of the girls who worked her.”

“Yes, that’s right. Her name was Erin. She wasn't a dancer, though. She served drinks. A very sweet girl.”

“Can you tell me more about Erin?”

“Well, she worked here for about six months. She was a very private person, but when you spend as much time together as we do, you can’t help but open up a little. Her story was heart-wrenching.”

“Go on,” I said.

“As I understood it, she married young and had a daughter. Her daughter got very ill — a rare leukemia. Her husband didn’t want the responsibility and ran off. Erin had a good job as a teacher at a private special needs school, but she had to quit her job to care for her daughter full time. Her mom cared for her daughter on the three evenings she worked here at the lounge. It certainly wasn’t her dream job, but our waitresses do very well here. And she needed money to pay for her daughter’s care. But her daughter had an aggressive form of leukemia that few people survive. The child didn’t survive, either, and shortly after that Erin lost her mother.”

“That’s very sad,” I said.

Brenda nodded.

“After that happened, we never saw her again. We never saw Preston again, either. We found it odd that they both stopped coming at the same time.”

“Do you know where I might reach her?”

“No, I don’t,” she said. “We tried to find her many times. But we had no records on her. We pay our waitresses cash under the table. When she was scheduled to work she always showed and did a good job.”

“No cell phone number?”

“The number she gave me went out of service after she left,” said Brenda. “I know this because I tried calling her. Probably one of those throwaway phones.”

“She never said what area she lived in?” I said.

“She said she lived out in Donora, a good 45 minutes away, but she always worried someone she knew would stop in when she was working. It was clear she valued her privacy, so we never tried to breech it. Is she in trouble?”

“I’m not sure what is going on,” I said, “but I must find her. She may be in danger.”

“Oh, goodness, what kind of danger?”

“I don’t know for certain,” I said. “You’re sure you don’t know anything more about her and Preston?”

“No, only that he was smitten with her. As far as we could tell, she was just friends with him. When he came here by himself he was interested in her, not the dancers.”

Brenda took a deep drag on her cigarette.

“God, I hope Erin will be all right,” she said.

“You and me both,” I said.

“She was really special,” said Brenda. “I’ve met a lot of hardened women in this line of work, but I must say, Erin was just a wonderful girl. She was genuine and good hearted. But at the same time, she was very firm. She never needed a bouncer. If a guy got out of line, she was always able to handle it herself. I hope she will be OK.”

I stood and shook her hand, then headed back down to Mick. Stevie Ray Vaughn’s “Tax Man” was playing loudly on the speakers.

Mick was lying on the stage on his back. 

An attractive young dancer expertly folded a dollar bill, then set it on his nose. In an incredibly seductive manner, she pressed her bosoms together and snatched the dollar bill off of Mick’s nose. 

“Hurry, Kid,” shouted Mick as he saw me coming down the stairs. “Get me a $20.”

And so I did.  

Bob Meinert was waiting for me at the pub.

“I have some interesting information for you,” he said, “some very interesting information.”

Bob opened his leather case and took out his portable computer. He set it on the bar and turned it on.

“Before I tell you what I found, let me first tell you what I didn’t find,” he said, sitting across from me.

It took only a few seconds for his computer to resume. He turned the screen so I could see it.

“First of all, there is no sign of any Erin Miller or Erin Preston in Maryville, as you already discovered.”

“That would be too easy,” I said.

“Miller is a common enough name that it should have turned up somewhere,” continued Bob. “I did a search across a 100 mile radius of Pittsburgh. We got about 18 Erin Millers, but not one who was in her 30s in the Donora area. It could be Miller is not her real name. It could be a lot of things, but no luck finding her address.”

“OK.”

“So the next thing I did was find out everything I could about John Preston. In particular, did he purchase a home in Maryville or have any utility or tax bills of any kind there. As you said, Erin told you she and Preston lived there, right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I found no evidence that Preston bought a home there. However, I did turn up some details about Preston’s company.”

“I’m all ears.”

“He filed for bankruptcy approximately four years ago.”

“Bankruptcy?” I said.

“Yes. This is not necessarily uncommon. Dynamic entrepreneurs are good at creating something from nothing, but as their business grows, they tend not to be great business managers. They over expand or over extend and suddenly they have financial troubles. Perhaps this is what happened to Preston.”

“Interesting,” I said. “Four years ago is about the time Victoria Hall joined his company as a partner.”

“Well,” said Bob, “being a private company there is not a lot we can ascertain about the company’s finances. However, I did find one other tidbit that you will like.”

“Go on.”

“As I continued digging up everything I could on John Preston, I found a man named John Preston who died in 1974. He was 62 years old and, according to the records I pulled up, he died from emphysema in the hills just outside of Wheeling, West Virginia.”

“Died?”

“Yeah, died. But then he was resurrected.”

“Resurrected how?” I said.

“John Preston was dead from 1974 until 1977,” said bob. “But in 1977 new activity began to occur with his Social Security number. Part time job, college loan, credit card issuance, apartment lease. The original John Preston is now the very same John Preston who went on to become the world's leading relationship expert.”

“Our John Preston assumed the identity of a dead man named John Preston?”

Bob nodded. 

He gave me the address where the original John Preston lived when he had died in 1974.

Within minutes I was in my truck and on my way to Wheeling, West Virginia.

Wheeling sits along the Ohio River exactly 44 miles southwest of downtown Pittsburgh. Its store fronts are still bustling with energy and commerce and the Grand Old Opry on the outskirts of town still brings in big acts.

I put the address Bob gave me into the GPS system on my phone. It brought me up a hill to an old mining town, where many of the houses were dilapidated, abandoned or bull dozed into a pile of rubble. 

Just my luck. 

I learned long ago as a detective that funeral homes proved to be good places to acquire old information, particularly about dead people. I did a Google search on my phone for funeral homes in the area. There was one only three miles from the address Bob had given me. I drove there.

***

“May I help you?” said an elderly gentleman, as I walked into the office.

He sat behind his desk doing paperwork. His hair was white as linen and frazzled. He wore a dark blue suit and red tie.

“My name is Sean McClanahan. I’m a private investigator.”

“What can I do for you?” he said.

I told him about John Preston, a man who died in 1974.

“John Preston was a fine man,” he said, “one of the finest I ever knew. We used to work the mines together, but I had my lucky break. I got out. Squirreled away enough money to get into the death business, I did.”

This old fellow had a feisty spirit. I liked him.

“By the time he died in ‘74, his hospital bills were so big, his family was broke. I told him I’d bury him free of charge. Least I could do.”

“Is there anyone in this area who knew him? Friends? Family?”

“Friends? Most of his friends are long gone. I ought to be gone, too, but the good Lord has seen fit to keep me around to bury everyone else first, I suppose. As for John’s family, they’re all dead, too, except for his sister. Name is Gertrude Miller. She still lives in the hills outside of town here. That poor women had gone through so much, yet she keeps on keeping on. Hell of a thing that happened to her family, her husband getting killed like that.”

“How was he killed?” I said.

“He was a bad man, Gerry Miller was. He deserved to die. Just a hell of a thing that his own son would go and do it.”

“Gertrude Miller’s son killed his father?” I said.

“Yeah, used a shotgun on his own daddy. Gerry used to like the drink, see. He’d work the mines all week, then keep drinking ‘til that week’s wages was done. Then he’d go home and beat on Gertrude. He beat on his son, too, and that boy weren't no more than 11 years old when it happened. One night, he beat Gertrude near to death. That boy had enough. He got the shotgun and blew his daddy into another world.”

“What was the son's name?”

“Johnny Miller.”

“Whatever happened to Johnny?”

“Well, they sent him off to one of them juvenile detention facilities. He didn't get out until he was 18. That had to be back in the late '70's or thereabouts — probably about ’77. I remember the date because Gertrude threw a big bash for him down at the fire hall.”

“What happened to him after that?”

The old man looked down at his shoes, then off to the side.

“I don't know about that, mister. He left town and we figured him for dead. He ain’t been back since that I know of. Why you ask?”

“It's a long story,” I said. “Do you know Gertrude Miller’s address?”

“I do and I’ll be happy to give it to you. Though if I were you, I'd be damn careful visiting her. She's got an itchy trigger finger with that shotgun of hers.”

“Shotgun?”

“Well, she's all alone up there and she carries around that shotgun. I hope you know what you're getting yourself into, sonny. Though if you face an untimely end at the hands of Mrs. Miller, I'd be obliged if you let me handle the arrangements.”

He cackled as he handed me one of his cards.

I smiled.

Then I headed to Gertrude Miller’s house.

Gertrude Miller's home was in the hills a dozen miles south of Wheeling near an old company mining town that has since been sold off to private owners. Getting there was no small challenge. I had to put the truck into four-wheel drive to make it up the steep gravel road that led to her house.

Unlike the road leading to it, Miller Court was beautifully paved and on it sat a modest-sized ranch home, that looked relatively new, with white aluminum siding, green shutters and a red front door.

I got out of the truck and knocked on the door. I heard nothing. I knocked again, louder, and heard nothing. Just as I was about to turn the door handle, I heard a shotgun pump behind me.

“What you want, mister?” said an old woman's voice.

I turned to see a woman in her 80's holding a shotgun.

“I'm looking for Gertrude Miller,” I said.

“Who are you?”

“I'll be able to explain if you put that shotgun down,” I said.

“I ain’t lowering nothing. Explain your purpose.”

“Erin Miller is in trouble,” I continued. “She was abducted by two men. I'm trying to find her. I may be the only person who can help her.”

She lowered the gun.

“Inside,” she said, walking past me and opening her front door. I followed her.

“Close the door,” she said, turning to me.

She situated herself in a rocker adjacent to a roaring fire in the fireplace. She wrapped herself in a quilt.

“Speak, boy,” she said. 

“My name is Sean McClanahan,” I said. “I’m a private investigator. I'm sorry about your son.”

“Johnny was a good boy,” she said.

“I know that his name was not really ‘John Preston,’” I said. “I know his real name was ‘John Miller.’ I know what he did as a boy and why he adopted his uncle’s name as his own.”

“So what of it?” she said. “He changed it when he turned 18 to conceal his past and start fresh. But what’s his name got to do with Erin?”

“Erin visited me a few days ago,” I said. “She told me John was murdered. She wanted me to come to her home to prove it to me. But before we could talk further, she was abducted by two men, one of whom used a blackjack to knock me out.”

Mrs. Miller lowered her head into her hands.

“She called me to tell me she was going to the police, but that was the last I’d heard from her. I’ve been worried sick about her. She told me John had been murdered. She told me he was going to have a press conference and tell the world about her — she feels like it is her fault he’s dead.”

“Tell the world what about her?” I said.

“That Erin was his wife and that he was going to resign from his company.”

“Wasn’t Elizabeth Preston was his wife?”

“They was never married, sonny. They never said they were, neither — people just assumed it. I don’t know why he ever got involved with Elizabeth. She was 10 years older than him — she was his psychology professor at West Virginia University some years ago. What with all that happened to Johnny as a young man — that awful incident with his daddy — well, Johnny dedicated himself to helping others find happiness. It was all he cared about and Elizabeth helped him with his work.”

“Did Elizabeth know about John’s past with his father? Did she know his real name?”

“No, sonny. He never told nobody who he really was and he could never tell nobody about me, neither. There is only one person in all these years who knows the truth about Johnny and that is Erin. John was wild about her. I fell in love with her instantly when I met her.”

“When did he marry Erin?”

“We had a small ceremony right here last week. Married her under his real name, John Miller.”

That cleared up why the name “Erin Miller” didn’t turn up in Bob Meinert’s database searches. The paper marriage record from a small West Virginia towns probably hadn’t yet been entered into the county’s computer system.

“And they lived in Donora not far from Maryville?”

“That's right. They lived in a darling little house that they’d just bought three or four months ago in Donora. It's just outside of that little town in the woods, but you'd think you're in the middle of Montana when you're there. They liked the seclusion because they didn’t want no one to know yet who John really was. They planned to live a modest life there after he resigned his company and come clean. They took me there once.”

“Can you give me the address and also Erin’s phone number for her house and cell?” I said.

She got up and got a piece of paper and a pencil. She wrote down everything I needed, including detailed directions to the house, then came back to her chair and sat down. She wrapped herself in her quilt.

“Did John share anything with you about anything else?” I said. “Any problems he may have been having with his business? Anything about a woman named Victoria Hall?”

“Johnny never burdened me with his problems. He told me that no matter what happened, he'd always take care of me. He said he'd set some money aside for me if anything happened.”

“He didn't mention what that anything might be?” I said.

“No, sonny. Johnny was a good boy. Never wanted to worry his momma.”

She got up from the chair and placed three more logs on the fire.

“Please go find Erin and make sure she's OK,” she said. “I can't bear the thought that anything might happen to that girl. Then you come back and visit me.”

I nodded to her, then let myself out.

I fired up the truck and drove as fast as I could back toward Maryville and a little town nearby called Donora.