Death on Mt Pleasant Page 3

  Jake and I are in awe. Both sides of the road have either, brick or wrought iron walls and fences with gated entrances. They are not just nice homes; they are estates with mansions sitting on them. I’m going to guess the lots are at least five acres. What homes we can see are set far back from the road. We pass probably at least twenty estates, ten on each side of the road.

  “Whoa, I’ve never seen these before. This is nice.” Jake quietly says, as if he is afraid he may wake someone out of a deep sleep.

  As a real estate broker, I am impressed. “I would guess a few of these are nicer than some of the oceanfront estates in Myrtle Beach.”

  We come to another rather new concrete bridge and the estates end, along with the trees. We come out of the shade into bright sunlight and more cornfields before coming to a stop sign at Route 204. I ask Jake to turn around and drive back through the uptown part of Allen Road. Just as we cross over the concrete bridge, Jakes says, “We have company,” and then I hear a siren.

  Jake pulls the car over and says, “I sure wasn’t speeding.”

  Right now, I am glad I left my .45 locked in my SUV. I’m not sure if my South Carolina carry permit is good in Ohio. I’ll put that on my list of things to do later.

  Jake rolls down his window as the officer exits his vehicle. I look back and see a flashing blue light on the dash of the car and the officer is dressed in what looks like a rent-a-cop uniform. He looks to be in his fifty’s and he does have a gun on his hip.

  The officer, with gray hair and a moustache, bends down and asks Jake for his driver’s license and registration. As Jake reaches for his billfold, I can’t keep my mouth shut any longer. “Excuse me sir. May I ask what police, county or state agency you are with and why did you pull us over?”

  “I’m Officer Fredrick and I’m with the Robson Security Company. And by the way, I’d like to see your identification as well.”

  Sometimes I tend to open my mouth and insert foot. This was one of those times. “Look Barney, I’m not showing you anything and neither is my friend. We weren’t doing anything wrong.”

  Jake turns to me with a blank look on his face. “I’m not?”

  “And furthermore, we were just out for a nice Saturday afternoon drive and you pull us over for no good reason. I want to talk to your boss.”

  Officer Fredrick gives me a stern look and rests his hand on the butt of his weapon before answering, “My first name is not Barney and we had a call about a suspicious vehicle in the area. The description fits your car. Now, do I see some ID and registration or do I call the Sheriff’s Department?”

  I think about it for a few seconds and decide I may not want the sheriff involved at this point of my investigation. I reply, “Okay Jake, give him what he wants,” as I retrieve my license from my billfold.

  Officer Fredrick tells us to stay put and he’ll be right back. Jake looks at me and whispers, “Barney?”

  “Well, you know, The Andy Griffith Show.”

  “Yeah, I know. I hope he doesn’t figure it out or he may shoot us right here.”

  Officer Fredrick returns, hands us our driver’s license and says, “Sorry gentlemen, this is a closely knit neighborhood and we are paid to keep it that way. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

  I don’t want to alarm Jake but now whoever called in the 911 to Officer Fredrick has information on both of us. I am also willing to bet the call originated from that black SUV that passed us at the railroad crossing. My hope for a discreet investigation is now blown. I am now going to have to speed things up.

  As we near Lancaster, Jake wants to know if I want to stop for a sandwich. I think for a moment and then answer, “Hell yes Jake, let’s go to that White Castle I noticed as we were leaving Lancaster.”

  Jake smiles, “Some things never change Mickke D, some things never change.”

  Chapter 5: The Accident

  Five years ago, Dr. Jon Spineback is on his way home from his satellite office in Canal Winchester. He lives in the exclusive Standing Oak Estates just outside of Pickerington. Dr. Jon is an MD specializing in pain management. He has another satellite office in Grove City and his main office is in Reynoldsburg.

  Dr. Jon is 42 years old and looks like a wrestler or a competing weightlifter. He is about 5’10 with a shaved head. He is not traveling alone. In the passenger seat of his black Chevy Suburban is Sue Ellen North, the wife of State Representative Michael North. Also along for the ride in the back of his Suburban are hundreds of prescription pain pills: Oxys, Percs, Vicodin, and Norcos.

  Dr. Jon’s practice is lucrative but not to the point of being able to sustain paying for his lavish home, three offices, twelve employees, and his upscale way of life. So Dr. Jon is a pain pill dealer with an extensive and fashionable client list. Sue Ellen falls within that category, and he has her hooked on pain pills.

  She and Dr. Jon have been having an affair for the last six months, which was the only way she could pay for her addiction without her husband becoming suspicious. Her husband had called her this afternoon and told her he would be working late tonight and not to wait up for him. Dr. Jon’s wife, Mary Jo, a veterinarian, is away on a three-day conference in Atlanta. Tonight seemed like an excellent time for the two of them to spend some quality time at Dr. Jon’s luxurious home.

  Dr. Jon loves to text. He is texting his wife, with Sue Ellen sitting beside him, and just as they get to the railroad crossing on Allen Road, he becomes pre-occupied with his phone and drifts left of center. Coming in the other direction is David Adams, who sees the black Suburban as soon as he gets on the tracks. He reacts and veers right to miss the head-on collision. Instead of crashing into the Suburban, he crashes into a very large tree.

  Sue Ellen screams and Dr. Jon slams on the brakes. He thinks for a few seconds and then makes a rash decision. He knows that if he is caught with Sue Ellen and the prescription pain pills, his way of life is over. He takes one look at David’s smashed car, sees no sign of life, and turns the Suburban around. He drives back to where Sue Ellen left her car. They only pass one other vehicle coming toward the crash site. As he drops her off, he tells her to keep her mouth shut and gives her some pills. He then drives around to the other side of Pickerington and comes home off 204.

  Terri Gandy is on her way home from work and shopping at the River Valley Mall in Lancaster. She lives in Pickerington and she was purchasing a gift for her daughter Samantha. It’s dark, cold, and there is a light rain falling. She hopes to get home before the rain turns to ice. She doesn’t like to travel Allen Road after dark because it is narrow and people sometimes speed on this straight stretch of back road.

  She notices headlights coming her way at a high rate of speed and she slows down as the oncoming vehicle approaches her. She is talking to Samantha on her cell phone and not paying as much attention to her driving and the oncoming vehicle as she probably should have been. The other vehicle passes her quickly and it almost looks like a large black limo. She just shakes her head and continues. As she approaches the railroad crossing, she notices what looks like a light and some smoke on the side of the road. She slows and sees the mangled, wrecked car of David Adams. She tells Samantha she will call her back, hangs up, and calls 911.

  When the Sheriff’s deputy arrives, the only thing Terri can remember is that the vehicle that passed her looked like a large, black limo.

  Three weeks after the accident, Sue Ellen North is a basket case. Dr. Jon is concerned that she is about ready to tell her husband and the authorities what happened on Allen Road that night. It is time to eliminate the only witness to the crime other than himself.

  He read all the reports in the papers and the woman in the car who he passed thinks the vehicle was a large black limo. The authorities have been unable to find that limo. With Sue Ellen gone, he should be in the clear.

  He has Sue Ellen check into a small out-of-the-way motel and then has her call him with the room number. He parks about two blocks away and walks to the motel with his bag of goodi
es. He foregoes any sex because he wants no physical evidence that she was with someone. He gives her pills and has her wash them down with vodka. Before long, Sue Ellen is woozy. He puts on surgical gloves and sits her up. He pushes more pills in her mouth and pours more vodka down her throat. Within ten minutes, Sue Ellen is out cold. He wipes the vodka bottle clean, places her hand around the bottle, and leaves some pills on the bed. He undresses her and fills the bathtub with warm water. He places her in the tub and gently pushes her head under the water. Her eyes pop open but she is unable to resist. Within seconds, she drowns. He wipes down anything he may have touched, grabs her cell phone from her purse, and leaves. He disassembles her phone and smashes all of the parts. He tosses the phone parts in different dumpsters on his way home. He deletes all calls to and from Sue Ellen from his own cell phone.

  She is found the next day when the maids come by to clean her room. The cause of death is reported as drowning from an overdose. Dr. Jon is questioned because he was her pain management doctor, but the prescriptions he had given her were not the pills found on the bed or in her stomach. He has all of his ducks in a very straight row.

  Chapter 6: Donna Walton Crist

  Jake drops me off at Shaw’s after a great late lunch of sliders and fries. I advise him I want to do some nosing around on my own for the rest of the weekend and I’ll call him Monday morning. He gives me his business card and informs me to call him at his office.

  As soon as I get back to my room, I call Eric Sink back in North Myrtle Beach. Eric owns a gun shop in the building next to my office. I ask him if my South Carolina concealed carry permit is good in Ohio. He gets online and tells me I’m good to go.

  My next call is to Donna Walton Crist. She answers on the first ring. “Could I speak with Donna Crist, please?”

  “This is she.”

  “Hi Donna, this is Mickke MacCandlish. I was given your number by Sissy Adams’ brother Jake. Do you have a few minutes to answer some questions for me?”

  There is silence on the other end of the phone. She finally responds, “Oh, my God, Sissy was always talking about you. Mickke D, right?”

  “Yes ma’am, that’s me.”

  She hesitates before answering. “I’m tied up right now, could we talk later?”

  “Sure, you name the time and place.”

  “So you’re in town?” She asks.

  “Yes, I’m staying at Shaw’s downtown.”

  “Okay, it’s 3:30 now. How about 5:30 in the bar at Shaw’s?”

  “Sounds great, Donna. How will I know you?”

  “Oh don’t worry, I’ll know you. See you at 5:30.”

  I walk into Cork’s Bar at Shaw’s at 5:30. After my eyes adjust to the dimly lit room, I recon the patrons and I notice a hand go up from a table near the back wall. I stride back to the table and stop in front. “Are you Donna?”

  Without getting up, she extends her hand and replies, “Yes, I am, but please call me Dee Dee, Mickke D. Sit down.”

  Donna Walton Crist, I’m going to guess, is in her early to mid-fifties, very attractive with a lovely smile. “So Mickke D, you’re just as Sissy described you.” Her voice breaks as she mentions Sissy’s name.

  Before I can comment, our waitress comes over. I do a double take. She almost looks like my ex-girlfriend Beverly. She is tall, has long legs and she has a ball cap sitting atop her long blond hair. She tells us her name is Michelle. I order a Heineken and Donna orders a Diet Coke. I watch Michelle walk away and then force my mind back to current events.

  Donna remarks, “Do you know her?”

  “Oh no, she just reminds me of someone.” I quickly move on. “So how did Sissy know anything about me? I haven’t seen her since I was in high school.”

  “Well, she kept track of you through the internet and newspaper articles. You can find out a lot about where people are and what they are doing in today’s electronic, social world. Anytime she mentioned David’s death, she always brought up your name.”

  Michelle delivers our drink order and then I continue. “So did she think David’s death was not an accident?”

  “Oh no, she knew it was an accident but she believed there had to have been a reason for him to veer off those railroads tracks and smash into that tree. She wanted to know why the accident occurred.”

  I am puzzled. “Was she still investigating his death?”

  “Well, I’m not sure. She mentioned it occasionally but nothing specific about finding any new evidence.”

  “Donna, I mean Dee Dee, on that subject, I need you to see if you can find the name of the witness who came upon the crash that night.”

  “No problem, I’ll be at the newspaper Monday morning to meet the new person in charge of Sissy’s weekly magazine. I’ll search it for you then. It should not be hard to find.”

  “So Dee Dee, what do you do at the newspaper, and how did you know Sissy?”

  “I’m an editing consultant. I freelance with the newspaper and I edited Sissy’s weekly magazine for her. I’ve known Sissy for almost twelve years. Her death was quite a shock to me.” Again, her voice cracks when mentioning Sissy’s name.

  The rather quiet atmosphere in the bar is interrupted by a piercing sound from a microphone being adjusted. I turn and look toward the bar area and a guy is setting up speakers and a microphone. He rests his guitar against a stool and apologizes for the unexpected shrill intrusion. I check my watch; almost 6:00. I have a lot more questions for Donna, so I ask, “Would you like to order something to eat? I guess we could go somewhere else if you think it will become too noisy in here.”

  “That would be great, but we can stay here. That’s Chicky’s Boy, real name John Cubito, and he plays guitar and an occasional harmonica. He sings oldies but goodies, nothing loud or over the top. He’s here every Saturday night from 6 to 9. The Rusty Walters Band is here on most Friday nights and they’re enjoyable as well.”

  “Sounds good to me.” I wave at Michelle and she brings menus with her. I order another beer and Donna just asks for a glass of water with lemon. We both order and then I ask, “Do you have any idea what stories Sissy was working on?”

  “Well, I know she was working on a story about the oil and gas industry and how fracking might affect the environment, especially Lancaster’s water supply. I think she was also looking into why Anchor Hocking was considering outsourcing its distribution center and possibly laying off many people. She was also working on something that had to do with pain pill addiction.”

  “Would any of those stories get her killed?” I ask as Michelle delivers our sandwiches. My mind wanders again as she walks away.

  She gets a quizzical look on her face before answering. “I certainly would not think so. Hey, are you sure you don’t know our waitress?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  We finish our dinner with mainly small talk. I ask her to try to think of anything or anyone who might have a grudge against Sissy and to please contact me when she gets the name of the witness at David’s crash scene.

  I pay the bill and leave Michelle a large tip. As we are leaving, I put a twenty in Chicky’s Boy’s tip jar and give him thumbs up. I walk Donna out to her car, which is parked in Shaw’s lot next door, and thank her again for her help. I ask her not to say anything about me looking into Sissy or David’s death. All of a sudden, she gives me a quick hug and says, “Thanks for being here. Sissy would really appreciate this.”

  I watch her pull out of the lot and then I turn to go back into Shaw’s. Suddenly, I have one of those old Army survival feelings. I feel the hairs on the back of my neck begin to tingle. Someone is watching me. I go back into Shaw’s as if nothing is wrong and quickly go out the side entrance. I reach for my chrome-plated .45 and, of course, I realize I left it in my room. I go around the back of the hotel and look for the black Suburban I saw on Allen Road this afternoon. I check the back and the side lot where Donna had parked. I see no sign of a black Suburban. I walk back around to the front of Shaw’s an
d look for the vehicle parked along the street. Nothing again, but I do notice a silver pick-up truck leave from Fairfield Federal’s parking lot across the street. It left so quickly, I didn’t get a chance to see the tag number. Now I have two vehicles to watch for, the black SUV and a silver pick-up.

  When I return to my room, I call Jake and ask him if he has a number for big Steve. He says he does and gives me his cell phone number. I thank Jake and immediately call Steve. He answers on the first ring. “This is Steve.”

  “Well, how in the hell are you, you big no-good bonehead?”

  I can tell he has no idea who’s calling. “Who is this?”

  “It’s me, Mickke D, how’s it hanging?”

  “Oh, my God, Mickke D. Are you still alive? I figured some woman’s husband would have shot you by now.”

  I can hear a woman’s voice in the background. “Is that Sharon? Are you still married to the same lovely woman?”

  “Yes I am. What about you, are you still married?

  “No, I’m not. I tried it three times and finally gave up. Became too expensive.”

  “So why are you calling me after all these years of not hearing a single solitary word from you, not even a Christmas card?”

  “Yea I know, my bad. Well, I’m in town and I’d like to get together with you sometime. Jake told me you are now a detective with the police.”

  “Yea, poor Jake. Did you hear about his sister Sissy?”

  “Yes, I did. That’s why I’m in town.”

  Chapter 7: Detective Reynolds

  I make plans to meet Steve for lunch the following day. He suggests Tiki Lanes. He said they have a wonderful Sunday brunch. I haven’t been there in forever so I agree. I used to work at Lincoln Lanes when I was in high school and I became a good bowler. Tiki was one of the places I used to bowl.

  I recognize big Steve the minute he walks in the door. Big Steve is still big, about 6’2 and 250 pounds of big, square jaw, and an Army style haircut. After some trash talk and checking out the brunch buffet, we get down to business. I tell Steve about Jake asking me to look into his sister’s death. He is confused. “Mickke D, why did Jake call you? There’s not one shred of evidence that Sissy was murdered.”