Wicked Is the Whiskey: A Sean McClanahan Mystery (Sean McClanahan Mysteries Book 1) Read Online Free PDF Page B

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.
     
     
     
     
     
     

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,