Death on Mt Pleasant

by Steve McMillen

  “Well, if that’s the case, you won’t mind if I do some snooping around to put Jake’s concerns at rest, will you?”

  He counters. “Speaking of snooping, I did some snooping of my own after I talked to you yesterday. Seems as if you have a PI business in North Myrtle Beach and you did investigative work while you were in Special Forces. I also contacted a Detective Concile with the North Myrtle Beach police. She actually spoke highly of you, although she told me never to let you know she said that.”

  “Well done, big Steve, well done.”

  He gets a very serious look on his face. “One thing we need to get straight right now. My name is Steve or Detective Reynolds. If I hear you call me big Steve one more time, I’m going to deck you, and you can tell Jake the same thing. We’re not in high school anymore.”

  No one wants decked by big Steve, so I reply, “No problem, Detective Reynolds. So does this mean you are going to be available if I need some inside help?”

  His happy face returns, “Sure, for Jake’s sake I’ll help any way I can, but I won’t jeopardize my job.”

  We take our turn in the serving line and I continue my investigation over brunch. “So how do you reconcile the fact that Sissy was scared to death of Mt. Pleasant? Why do you think she was up there in the first place?”

  He answers right away. “She was trying to overcome her fear of Mt. Pleasant, got too close to the edge, and fell. Or maybe she fainted and fell.”

  “Okay, so what about her cell phone? Jake said the police have still not found her cell phone?”

  “That one I don’t have an answer for. It could have fallen out of her purse and shattered on the rocks on the way down. We’re still looking into that.”

  “Oh, so the investigation is not over?”

  “Yes and no. We would like to find the cell phone if possible.”

  I reach in my pocket and pull out my handkerchief. I take out the Kleenex and show it to big Steve. “I found this up on the mountain stuck in a bush near the tree line. Can you check to see if it’s blood, and if it is, run a DNA test to see if it matches Sissy?”

  “Where did you find that? We combed the entire top of Mt. Pleasant the day we found her body. In addition, you know since you disturbed the evidence, it won’t stand up in court. How many days have you had it in your pocket?”

  “Just one. I guess I just got lucky. I took a picture of the Kleenex in the bush before I removed it, and I found an area where someone could have been sitting and waiting. Of course, it could have been a deer for all I know.” I show him both pictures on my phone.

  He looks at each picture, “Well, at least you took a picture before you removed it from the bush. I don’t see an area in the other picture where someone was sitting.”

  “To the untrained eye, it isn’t visible and you weren’t looking for it. Oh, and by the way, I didn’t tell Jake about the Kleenex because it could be nothing.”

  “No problem, it most likely is nothing.”

  “So, detective, one more question. Do you think you could get me the case file from the Sheriff’s office on the death of Sissy’s husband, David?”

  “What the hell has David’s death got to do with Sissy’s death?”

  “That’s the same thing Jake asked. I’ll tell you the same thing I told him. Just covering all my bases.”

  He shakes his head, “Why am I beginning to think that you covering all the bases is going to get me in hot water? Sharon told me before I left the house to be careful, that you would probably end up getting me in trouble just like you always did when we were growing up.”

  ”Now come on Steve, when did I ever get you into trouble?”

  He gives me a pained look. “Let me count the ways, Mickke D, let me count the ways.”

  I quickly change the subject before he starts naming people and places. “I do have one more request of you. Do you know an area just south of Pickerington on Allen Road with big lots and huge homes?”

  “Sure, it’s called Standing Oaks Estates, and it’s a rather exclusive area. What does it have to do with anything?”

  “Well, I don’t know but I would like you to see if anyone living there owns a black SUV, probably not more than a year or two old. And while you’re checking, could you see if anyone working for Robson Security Services owns a silver Ford pick-up, maybe an F-150?”

  “Damn Mickke D, I thought you were the PI. Sounds like I’m doing all the work.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you what. When I figure out who killed Sissy, I’ll give you all the credit.”

  With a scornful look on his face he replies, “Let me say this one more time, Sissy’s death and David’s death were both accidents.”

  As we are finishing our brunch, a man walks by, recognizes Steve, and asks us if we enjoyed our brunch. Steve introduces him as the general manager at Tiki. Steve bowls there and from the conversation, I gather he is a high-average bowler.

  I look at Steve. “Guess I taught you well.”

  “Yeah, right. You wish,” he replies.

  As we are leaving, I give Steve my cell phone number and tell him he can call me any time. I also ask him to put a rush on that possible blood sample and DNA analysis. He just shakes his head and walks away. I call out, “Tell Sharon I said hello.” He puts his hand up and keeps on walking.

  I feel much better now. I have someone on the inside with direct access to important information and evidence.

  Before returning to Shaw’s, I drive around town for a while. Jake was right; there are quite a few changes since I was last here. I drive by Lincoln Lanes, but the building is dark. A sign on the door read, “Thanks for all the great years, The Management.” I’d had a lot of good times there, met many nice people, and made quite a few good friends. It actually made me think about my first wife, since I met her there, but that thought did not linger very long.

  Once I return to Shaw’s, I write down everything that has taken place so far, what I need to follow up on, and what I need to do next. Just as I am finishing my notes, my cell phone rings. It’s Donna Crist. “Mickke D, I didn’t want to wait until tomorrow, so I started checking online and found the article about David’s accident. The woman who came upon the accident was a Terri Gandy. Not much information, just that she lived in Pickerington and worked at Dick’s in the River Valley Mall.”

  “Thanks Dee Dee, I appreciate the help. I’ll check her out tomorrow.”

  That night, before going to bed and beginning the book I brought along, I call Jim, “Hey, big guy, anything exciting going on at the beach?”

  “Mickke D, it’s the weekend here, probably the same up there? Say, since you’re in Ohio, will you pick up some Ohio State T-shirts for me? Size XL.”

  “I’ll see what I can find. How’s Blue?”

  “Oh, he’s fine. I brought him over here to spend the night. When are you coming back?”

  “Not sure. Looks like I have a can of worms up here. I’ll keep you advised.”

  “If you need some help, let me know, and don’t forget the T-shirts.”

  I get out my book, Baskets of Eyes by local Myrtle Beach author John Barry, and begin reading. Within ten minutes, my eyes begin to close, so I shut the book, turn off the light and fall asleep. I get lucky tonight, no bad dreams.

  Chapter 8: Rising Park

  I start my day with breakfast at Shaw’s and then go out for a brisk two-mile jog around downtown Lancaster. After my not-so-great trek up Mt. Pleasant, I figure I should do some roadwork.

  While on my jog, I notice several different businesses, including The Ohio Glass Museum on Main Street, which look interesting. I make a mental note to try to go through it before I leave town. I also have the feeling, again, that someone is watching me, but I am unable to locate the source of my concern.

  After my shower and before I leave Shaw’s, I call big Steve. “So, detective, have you had a chance to check out that possible evidence I gave you yesterday?”

  My phone is silent. I begin to think the call
was dropped. “Mickke D, I’ve only been in the office for an hour and a half, and you’ve only been in town two days and already you’re becoming a pain in the ass.”

  “No, detective, I’m just following up on our meeting yesterday.”

  Again, there is a pause before he continues. “I did find out one thing for you. That Kleenex did have spots of blood on it.”

  I exclaim, “Yes, I was right! Is it Sissy’s blood?” I know the answer, but I just want to rattle his cage a little bit.

  “Oh, come on, you know it takes days, sometimes weeks, for a DNA analysis.”

  “Well, see if you can speed things up. I need to solve this case for Jake and get back to the beach.”

  “Very funny. Why don’t you just go back to the beach and I’ll call you when I get the results.”

  “Right.” I tell big Steve to keep me advised and leave Shaw’s to go to River Valley Mall. Since I know my carry-permit is good in Ohio, I take my .45 with me.

  Upon leaving the parking area, I opt to go the roundabout way to the mall. I drive up Main Street, turn left on High Street, and head toward Rising Park. I am going to try to figure out if someone is following me. I turn right on Wheeling, left on Maple and left on Sixth, which takes me back to High Street. I turn right on High Street and by the time I get to Fair Avenue, my concerns are validated. A silver Ford pick-up, probably the same one I saw the other night, is still about a block behind me. He came out of Fairfield Federal’s parking lot as I headed up Main Street. He was easy to spot, so he must not be a pro.

  I drive into Rising Park and go directly to Shelter House One. I park my vehicle and go into the shelter house. From behind a stone pillar, I watch as the Ford pick-up goes to the far end of the parking area and backs his vehicle into a space. The person inside does not get out. I go out the back way and down over the hill toward the pond, jog up the road, which comes in behind the shelter house, and end up about fifty yards behind and to the left of the pick-up. I hope that the person inside will be concentrating on the shelter house and not looking behind him.

  With .45 in hand, I cautiously move from tree to tree until I am no more than ten yards from him. I sprint to the driver’s side window and point the .45 at him as I motion for him to roll down his window.

  Terror grips his face as he slowly rolls down the window. I press the .45 against his ear and ask, “Do you know what this is?” He nods his head. “Do you know how it works?” He agrees again. “I pull the hammer back.” He hears the click. “And then I pull the trigger and you die.” He closes his eyes tightly.

  He finally moans, “Oh, please don’t shoot me.”

  I open his door and pull him out. I can tell by the look in his eyes that he is scared to death. I tell him to put his hands on the truck and not to move. I lower my weapon and ask, “Why were you following me?”

  “Someone paid me to follow you.”

  “Who paid you?”

  With desperation in his voice, he answers, “I don’t know. The call came through as unknown.”

  “So how do you contact him?”

  “I don’t, he calls me.”

  Before I can ask my next question, I hear sirens. I motion to my stalker to get in the truck. “Tell your friend I’m looking for him and I will find him. Now get out of here.”

  I figure this person knows nothing. He’s just a pawn on the game board. I put my gun away and walk up to the shelter house while repeating aloud the license tag number. I sit down on a picnic table and write the number on the back of one of my business cards. Within seconds, a squad car and an unmarked car pull into the parking lot. I wave.

  Big Steve removes his large body from the unmarked car, motions to the two officers in the squad car to stay put, and walks up and takes a seat beside me. “Mickke D, we had a call that someone was pointing a gun at someone in a silver Ford pick-up truck. Do you know anything about that?”

  “Yes, detective, that would be me.”

  “So now you’re not only being a pain in the ass, but you’re also pointing guns at civilians?”

  I cautiously smile. “Well, yes and no. I’m not a pain in the ass, and yes, I was pointing a gun at some low-life, not sure I would even classify him as a civilian.”

  Steve looks me directly in the eyes and does not smile. “So, where is the gun, and do you have a permit to carry it?”

  I hold up my left hand and with my right hand, I slowly retrieve my chrome-plated .45 from its holstered location in the small of my back. I hand it butt first to big Steve. I then get my carry permit from my wallet and hand it to him.

  He smells the muzzle and quips, “Well, at least you didn’t shoot the guy. Nice .45. Where did you get it?”

  “Out of the country while I was in Special Forces. It was a gift from a Colombian general for services rendered.”

  “I’m not even going to ask what services you rendered to a Colombian general.”

  It’s time to mess with him a bit. “Good, because it’s classified, and I couldn’t tell you anyway.”

  He just shakes his head. I know he is eating this to and fro banter up, “Your permit looks valid. Did you check to see if a South Carolina permit is valid in Ohio?”

  “Yes, I did, detective, and it is.”

  He hands the gun back to me, and asks, “So now for the big question. Why were you pointing a gun at this so-called low-life?”

  “Can I answer that off the record?” I am trying not to smile.

  He raises his voice. “No, it’s not off the record. Why were you pointing a gun at that person? Tell me right now or we can discuss it at the station.”

  “Okay, don’t panic.” I tell him how the pick-up had been following me since I left Shaw’s and how I lured him here to the shelter house. I tell him I let him go because I figure he is only a pawn, and that he may lead us to whoever hired him.

  Again, he raises his voice, “What’s that, lead us to whoever hired him? Do you even know who this guy is?”

  “No I don’t, but I did write down his license plate number. Maybe you can run the plate for me,” and before he can scold me again, I continue. “And doesn’t it seem strange that someone is following me ever since I started looking into Sissy’s death and David’s death? Maybe neither one of their deaths was an accident.”

  He stands up, gives me a look of disdain, and says, “Oh, give me the damn plate number and stop pointing guns at civilians.”

  As he turns and walks away, I call out, “Be sure and tell Sharon I said hello.” Just as before, he raises his hand and doesn’t answer or look back. I think he is actually enjoying having me back in town. Or not.

  Detective Reynolds has a big smile on his face as he walks away, but he is not going to let Mickke D know that. He had a hunch that Sissy’s death was not an accident and now he has a hunch that maybe David’s was not an accident as well. Mickee D can snoop around in ways he can’t. He just hopes his old friend isn’t killed along the way.

  Dale DuPont finally makes it to his house in Basil, which is about ten miles east of Pickerington. He is shaking like a leaf in a windstorm. He has been hooked on pain pills for almost three years after a major back injury and he was promised some freebies if he would just follow some guy around and report back when called. He messed up. The guy spotted him, confronted him, and he thought he was going to die. He has no idea what he will tell his caller. Should he tell him what the guy said or just lie and say he lost him? He takes two more pain pills.

  Chapter 9: The Mall

  I finally get to the River Valley Mall around 11:00. I go directly to Dick’s and ask the first employee I see if Terri Gandy is working today. The employee’s name is Sara and she is a lovely thirty-something black woman with a beautiful smile. She tells me Terri is in the shoe department and she gives me a big smile and directions. As I turn and walk away, she calls out, “If she can’t help you, come back and maybe I can.” I start to turn and say something but decide to continue with the mission.

  I reach the shoe d
epartment and look around. I notice an employee talking to a younger woman who looks familiar to me. After a few seconds, I remember. I walk up to them and say to the young girl, “So how much money did you take from those old guys on Saturday?”

  Both women turn and stare at me with bewilderment in their eyes. The young woman finally beams a huge smile and replies, “Grandpa and I took them for about fifty bucks. Didn’t I see you in Root’s Saturday morning?”

  Terri Gandy interjects, “Samantha, were you and grandpa hustling at Valley View again?”

  “No, mom, they made the bet, we just agreed and took them to the cleaners.”

  Terri frowns, looks at me, and asks, “My daughter the golf pro, and who might you be?”

  I get out my business card and hand it to her. “I’m Mickke MacCandlish and I’m a private investigator looking into an accident which took place about five years ago on Allen Road. I understand you were the only witness.”

  She gazes at the card. “So you’re from North Myrtle Beach. What are you doing way up here, and why are you investigating something that was declared an accident five years ago?”

  Before I have a chance to answer, she continues, “My husband and I have discussed moving to the Myrtle Beach area. Do you like living there? How are the winters down there?”

  I get out my wallet and hand her my real estate card. “I am also a real estate broker in the Myrtle Beach area. I’ll be happy to show you and your husband around sometime. To answer your first question, I’m originally from Lancaster and a friend of mine asked me to look into his sister’s death. She fell off Mt. Pleasant a couple of weeks ago and died. Her husband was the man killed in the accident on Allen Road. Do you mind if I ask you some questions?”