The Case of the Ice Man: Laurel Private Eye

By Shannon D. Wells

A missing man with loads of money.
A lady Pinkerton with loads of brass.
Will that, and clever detective work, be enough to solve the case? 

 

November, 1932

Laurel is dreading Thanksgiving. So much so that she's downright relieved when the Pinkerton office receives a call for help. Eager to put her holiday plans on hold, she races across the city to the home of ice factory mogul, Gerald Eymann. 

It seems Gerald has gone missing, leaving his wife fearing the worst and desperate to find him. As Laurel digs into the case the facts quickly begin to twist and turn on her. 

 

A mystery girl.
An absent step-son.
A doctor fixated on the frantic wife. 

 

The further Laurel digs into the mystery, the more suspicious she becomes of all those involved. With the clock ticking and her Pinkerton boss breathing down her neck, can she find the Ice Man before the trail gets cold? 

 

The Case of the Ice Man is the second installment of the Laurel Private Eye Series. Thrilling female gumshoe mysteries meet witty repartee in this return to the Golden Age of detective stories!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pearl Handle Press
• Release date: Oct 14, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393056744

Shannon D. Wells

Shannon D. Wells started the Laurel Private Eye series to combine her love of mystery, history, and snappy comebacks into fun, fast-paced reads. She hopes that other Thin Man aficianados who like lady detectives love them too. She writes from her home in Dallas, Texas that she shares with her favorite husband, two daughters, and two black lab rescues,.

Book preview

1

It was bad luck to borrow trouble, but I couldn’t help it. Instead of sleeping, I had spent the past week working out what I would say for Tom’s eulogy. There were a few pithy statements that I knew would be repeated in the sanctified gossip of small-town prayer meetings.

I fretted that he had surely been stabbed by some bum, and any minute now there would be a knock on the door….

I rearranged my pillow and the coverlet for what was the thousandth time. I wondered how I had hit the temperature oddity of being too hot under and too cold without the cover yet again. The sheets were starting to feel like they were trapping me in the bed.

Tom had been working security overnights at the railroad yard; there was a hobo infestation that needed cleaning out. I’d only had one interaction with a drifter, and it had not gone well for anyone involved. I hoped there wasn’t any payback on its way, although goodness knows we weren’t entirely responsible.

I sat up, grabbed my robe and pulled it close to help keep me warm. I went through the empty hall, past the parlor, to the kitchen. I pulled the Joy of Cooking book from its spot in the cupboard. Tom had picked it up as a joke on some Pinkterton errand in St. Louis.

The cash I had secreted in the cover was still there. I could see the barest corner of one bill, and the cellophane tape was still intact. Good.

The heat from the floor grate in the hall drifted up over my feet, leading back to the bedroom. There was enough in the cookbook to keep me going for a few months if anything happened to Tom.

Back in our room, I hung my robe back up and pulled the curtain hem up to me. It crinkled satisfactorily. Those bills I'd sewn in there were for my comfort. I laid down again, hoping the reserves I'd stashed would ward off bad luck and let me sleep.

I strained to hear anything, but there was nothing. No cars were coming down the street, no barking dog even. I tried to stay alert, until I became weighed down by sleep. When Tom did finally come in, he was in one piece. It woke me, and not on the right side of the bed.

Hey.

Hey, yourself. I just finally got to sleep. You had to come in and ruin it.

Good thing I got here, then. It’s time for you to rise and shine for work. He was smiling, I could hear it.

Catch anyone?

A couple. Tomorrow might be the last night they need us. Tom looked tired in the barely lit room. He didn’t have any visible wounds, but I thought I saw a bruise forming on his cheek.

It’d better be. We have a long drive on Thursday. We were going home to Mississippi for Thanksgiving, and I dreaded the trip. All those kinfolk, full of concern and nosiness, wanting to pray for us. I was starting to boil a bit thinking about it. Living so far from family was a bit difficult at times, but I was enjoying that our business stayed our business.

He bobbed his head once.

I remember. I’m gonna be the one driving.

We don’t have to go if you feel that way about it.

What way? He stopped, pulling off his shirt to ask.

Just… nothing. He glared at me.

Spit it out, Larry.

I’m not looking forward to the trip, that’s all, I mumbled.

You don’t want to go see everyone? We’ve been away for months now, I thought—

I know, it’s fine, really. It’s fine. Just, we’re going to go home and everyone’s going to be so nice, and I don’t know if I can stand it. That’s all. He was flat out staring at me now. I must’ve had a second head coming out of a shoulder.

You don’t want to be around kinfolk because they’re going to be too nice? Of all the—

Forget it. I swung my legs off the bed and grabbed my robe. We’ll go home, eat our fill of the most wonderful food, and give everyone enough to talk about for a year.

He blinked at me, rubbed his face, then eased his way onto the bed.

You’re something else, Larry, something else.

Don’t I know it. I tossed over my shoulder.

He was already snoring.

2

The chill in the air and my thick, tired head made everything more difficult than usual at the office. The typewriter and telegram machine were colluding against me, clattering and refusing to cooperate. After the sixth time, I lost count of how many times I had to count to ten.

The office was full and bustling though, everyone rushing to finish up their work to prepare for the downtime of Thanksgiving. The Pinkertons never slept, but they didn’t have anything against a good American holiday.

A parade of hotel dicks, railroad bulls, and various security agents were stopping by, dropping off paperwork, and gossiping the way men do. Which was to say, they made it sound like they were talking about business.

As long as it could be framed as being about work, men would chat as much as anyone attending a Baptist Ladies Auxiliary luncheon. Some busybody I’d never met before parked himself right past my desk and waylaid everyone he saw with the same terrible story.

Did you hear about Roy?

Naw, haven’t seen him in months.

Well, he’s been having a rough time of it. Having to miss work a lot, not surprised you haven’t seen him ’round.

What’s he missing work for?

Remember his wife, Phyllis?

Met her once or twice. Nice lady.

She was nice, good mother to their three kids. Right up until she moved into a house a few blocks over as the new wife to the children’s doctor….

By the third time I’d heard the Roy and Phyllis saga, I was ready to stuff my ears with cotton. I didn’t know how Ms. Jacobs could nod and look surprised at the ending every time she heard the story, but I couldn’t take it. Luckily, most of the hangers-on cleared out for lunch, leaving the pleasant hum of a quiet office, at least for the moment.

I stood to stretch and get the blood flowing again when Ms. Jacobs, the only other soul in the office, motioned me to her desk.

I’m stepping out to grab a quick bite and take this—she waved a fan of correspondence— to the post office. I should be back shortly. Can you handle the responsibility of answering the phone? The woman didn’t think anyone other than herself was competent, but I nodded my head anyway.

Yes, ma’am.

Make sure to greet the callers professionally and take down the message for when I return. I looked down at the desk to keep from rolling my eyes.

She hovered over her desk and looked from the phone, which hadn’t rung all morning, back to me one last time, then pulled her gloves on, and briskly walked out.

I watched her go. I wondered if I should sit in her chair until she returned or take the opportunity to change very small things about her desk to see if she noticed. Nothing much, just adjust the chair height a bit, and maybe move a few papers to different places. I had decided to risk it with the chair height when the phone trilled, almost in my ear. I jumped and looked about, thinking for a second she was protecting her desk in her