The Case of the Osage Heiress: Laurel Private Eye

By Shannon D. Wells

A missing heiress. A town full of secrets. And the truth that could destroy them....

 

Dallas, March 1933

 

Tired of mundane office work, Laurel Robertson is ready to throw herself into her next investigation. With her Pinkerton team at her side, she's heading to Oklahoma for what should have been a simple case. It doesn't take long for the crew to realize there's far more on the line than they could possibly imagine. 

 

It's up to them to secure the signature of heiress Thelma Bow. Unfortunately, she hasn't been seen in years. If the residents of the town of Blacksburg know how or why she has maintain an enigmatic existence, they refuse to say. 

 

Even more surprising, they'll stop at nothing to keep these secrets buried. With their lives on the line and danger closing in, can Laurel and her crew unravel this conspiracy before it's too late? 

 

This is the highly-anticipated third installment in the gripping Laurel Private Eye series. If you love fast-paced, Golden Age mysteries laced with colorful characters and zingy one liners, this is the series for you!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pearl Handle Press
• Release date: Nov 11, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393764045

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

My arm was starting to tire from being held steady for so long. The gun barrel wobbled, and I started to sweat a bit. It was silly, really, to get nervous about shooting, but nervous was where I was.

I sighed, brought my left hand up to steady the butt, and then tried lining up the sights so they were pointing directly at the man’s hat. Everything was starting to tire a little, including my eyes. It was hard to maintain the concentration for something you needed your whole body

to accomplish. I was—

Are you going to shoot or what, Larry?

I yelped and almost dropped the thing and then nearly caught the trigger as I was bobbling it around.

Tom Robertson! Don’t do that! I’m going to shoot, leave me be!

Starting to wonder. Keep both eyes open and squeeze; everything else looks good. There’s a lot riding on this. Don’t miss.

I glared at him, squared my shoulders, and brought the pistol back up. One shot is all you get. I narrowed my eyes and squeezed the trigger.

POP

The hat now had a perfectly round hole through it, although a little lower and to the left from where I was aiming. I sighed in relief. It was over. Tom was already at the fireplace, examining the hole.

Well, looks like you got him, Larry. You win, fair and square. My husband was half-smiling, holding the newspaper ad of a hat we’d been aiming at. His shot had been much wider and to the right.

Are you saying that you think I would cheat somehow?

No.

I think that’s what I heard you say. I’ll have you know, Tom Robertson, that I do not cheat. It’s not dignified or honest. I stomped over to the fireplace, giving him my back, all the while wondering why I was so incensed. Tom was still squatting down, scratching his temple and holding the paper. He looked up at me.

You won, Larry. I have to wash the dishes. Do you want to stop shooting for that prize?

You’re trying to get out of doing the dishes now.

Tom sighed, tossed the paper down on the side table, and headed to the kitchen.

Who put a bee in your bonnet? he muttered over his shoulder.

You did, Tom. You did, I tried to banter back, but it went flat. In truth, I wasn’t sure where the bee came from. I had just won after less than a month of shooting, I should be pleased as punch. It wasn’t bad for only having shot a pistol for three weeks—and this was only the second day of it counting toward our contest. The first time I’d fired a pistol, it’d been an unplanned, useless disaster.

Tom had blamed his miss on the Daisy Targeteer being different than a real gun. You can’t shoot a derringer in the house, even if you’re a detective in training.

Not that I had gotten to do much in the way of detective work since November. So far, my detective-in-training work had consisted of following a lady on her weekly trip to the hairdresser. I sat next to her and had my hair done as well. My job was to keep her in sight. I had not been trusted with further information about the case, so I wasn’t sure who or what I was watching for.

Still, it did break up the time spent in the office miserably trying to type. Tomorrow was Monday. I was going to have to be patient and show that I could handle anything, even boredom.

I wondered again how to bring up the conversation about the empty bottles I’d found stashed around the yard. They’d smelled like liquor. The first I’d discovered beneath my anemic gardenia, the second I’d found in the far back corner when I was fetching the shovel that had been left out, and the third was in the shed under Tom’s toolbox. I’d collected and washed them. Tom hadn’t said a word about the new bottles I’d come across and neither had I.

I sighed and opened the little notebook he’d put the target on top of. It was less satisfying than I’d hoped to put a mark in my column. We were even, for now.

2

W ant coffee?

---

I looked up at Tom from my seat at my desk, surprised. I was re-reading the letter I had typed before I handed it to Ms. Jacobs. I don’t know why I bothered. She always found an error that I hadn’t, no matter how many times I read the thing.

---

That would be lovely, thank you, I said, smiling at him and hoping for a more enjoyable car ride home from our work at the Pinkerton Agency this afternoon. This morning’s ride had been unexpectedly quiet and curt. Tom had said almost nothing, which was unusual for someone who enjoyed mornings and running his mouth.

Here. He set it down on my desk and then galloped off. I frowned and turned my head to see where he was going.

Major Goodall was standing by the door to their office, waving him over. I started to turn back for my coffee, but he caught me looking and motioned for me to come along as well. This was promising.

I tried to get up slowly, like this wasn’t the most exciting thing that had happened at work in weeks. I might have succeeded, except that Ms. Jacobs was stepping up to my desk at the same time.

Oh, hello. I sat back into my chair and reached for a letter. She grabbed it first and looked it over through her spectacles, frowning.

Good morning, Mrs. Robertson, she said, not looking up from the paper. I peered at my watch. Technically, ten minutes ’til noon was still morning. Her dress looked as stiff and starched as she was. Always proper, nothing out of place and certainly no room for errors.

Morning. I wondered if standing and edging my way to the office would work.

Going somewhere, Mrs. Robertson? Ms. Jacobs was raising her dark eyebrows at me, blinking over her specs. That woman had the observation skills of a hawk, my chair had only moved a fraction of an inch.

Major Goodall asked me to join them in a meeting, ma’am. I added the last bit for good measure. She made a hmph noise to let me know what she thought of that, then looked back to the letter.

I suppose you had better get on with it, then. When the meeting’s over, you can make the corrections here, she tapped, and here. I won’t allow the agency to be represented by less than the best. Standing up from my desk, we were eye to eye. I was holding onto the desk to keep from running to the meeting.

Yes, ma’am. I’ll make the corrections. I hoped I sounded respectful. Mending fences after you’ve dumped office rubbish on someone’s head was hard and took time. Lots of time. I’d spent almost six months atoning for that; so far, no end was in sight.

See that you do. Go on now, don’t keep them waiting. She waved me away, moving to the next desk like a school marm. I believed she’d missed her calling.

Feeling like I’d been sprung from a cage, I reached for my steno pad and stood up to see Major Goodall waving impatiently at me, hand motioning like a windmill. I nodded, gathered up my notepad and pencil, and raced toward whatever wonderful thing was waiting for me.

The office I walked into had little in the way of excitement. Tom was sitting at his desk with his chair facing the middle of the room. Major Goodall was heading back to his chair and desk after shutting the door behind me.

Disappointed, I stood right inside the door, clutching my writing pad to my chest.

Why the long face? Tom looked at me, brows bunched up.

I was expecting someone more exciting than y’all in here, I said, feeling myself pout before I could stop it. Major Goodall laughed at me.

Someone’s on their way. Wanted to brief y’all before Barret brings in the client, he said, kicking his feet up onto his desk. I inhaled deeply to contain myself, then had a coughing fit. Major Goodall had been smoking his pipe in the office again.

Who? Bless Tom for asking; I was still coughing.

Larry, going to make it? Major Goodall was watching me unsuccessfully wrestle down the hacking cough.

I’ll be fine, I managed to say before the air ran out and I coughed again. Major Goodall politely waited until I had it contained.

Repeat client, name’s Augie Smith, is coming in today. Don’t know for sure what he’s coming in about. Figure it has something to do with his oil business. Used our services before for… this, that, and t’other. Major Goodall was avoiding particulars, which meant I didn’t want to know exactly what services we’d previously provided. Not if I wanted a clear conscience.

Larry, need you in the meeting to take notes. He tends to be a bit slippery on details and remembering exactly what he’s promised. Tom, you’re going to learn a lot from dealing with him. He’s a peach. Major Goodall was covering his face with a coffee cup.

I was disappointed, again. When I had agreed in September to be a detective in training, I assumed it meant I actually got trained and went out in the field. Here it was, early March, and I hadn’t so much as left the office unaccompanied since November. The only training I’d received was being bored and let down.

Well, that and Tom and I starting to shoot in the evenings, but that was more, what you’d call, personal.

So, that’s it? I’m here to take notes? I sounded petulant even to myself, and I didn’t care.

What else would you do? Major Goodall had to know he was provoking me. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Tom trying to wave him off. I hissed at him. He put his hand back behind his head, looking at the ceiling like he hadn’t been doing a thing.

I don’t know, be more involved? Learn something? Actually leave the office and do something? My voice was getting higher, and I harshly placed my notepad and pencil on Tom’s desk. Major Goodall put his coffee down and scratched his head.

Got the distinct impression that you didn’t enjoy your last— He cleared his throat. "—experience with field work."

I blinked and then tried to settle myself.

I enjoyed getting out of the office. I enjoyed learning new things and using my brain. The other parts—I slowed my speech down, the better for the right words to come out—were not my favorite, no. But there is a price to pay for excitement, I suppose.

No one said anything for a moment. I silently dared Tom to bring up the nightmares I had for a few months, the ones where I hadn’t been fast enough, where the gun had gone off at the wrong time, and where we dragged a blubbering man to his doom. They were always real enough that I woke up in a cold sweat. Tom’s eyes met mine, but he didn’t say a word. I looked back to Major Goodall.

Well, then. He scratched his chin. Like I was saying, someone’s on their way. Don’t know if this will be exactly your cup of tea, Larry, but we do need you.

I pursed my lips and pretended to be mollified—for a second. I opened my mouth to dig a little deeper, when the office door opened.

Mr. Augie Smith, Ms. Jacobs announced flatly, with her usual charm. A jovial-looking man with a potbelly and clean, white cowboy hat strode into the room. He seemed to slide around in his boots while he walked. He reminded me of those Christmas elves illustrations.

Major Goodall! So delighted to see you again! Mr. Augie Smith even sounded like a bubbly elf. It was going to be hard to treat him professionally if I kept thinking of him as an elf. He enthusiastically pumped Major Goodall’s arm, his voice booming.

Major Goodall returned his vigor with a markedly smaller smile and said, How ya doing there, Augie? This here’s my new partner, Tom, and this here—he jerked his head in my general direction—is his wife Laurel. Heard from Barret you’ve got some business for us?

The much older gentleman burst into laughter. I didn’t see what was so amusing.

Just like you, Goodall, isn’t it? Always business. Pleased to make your acquaintance. He shook Tom’s hand, then turned and took his hat off, nodding to me. Ma’am. It’s been, what, four months, since we last saw each other? What happened to the old partner, what was his name, Guyson? Mr. Augie Smith had taken the seat directly in front of Major Goodall’s desk and was already putting his boots up on it. I saw Major Goodall’s mouth twitch, then he brought himself back to the discussion.

Longer than that, I’d say. How’s business? Mr. Smith was now pulling a cigar out and fooling with the whole process of getting it lit. Major Goodall didn’t answer the question about Guyson, which wasn’t a name I’d heard before. I wondered what had happened, but Mr. Smith let it drop, his cigar taking up all his mental faculties. After getting the thing to light, he waved the match out and finally answered Major Goodall’s question.

Business is good, business is good, can’t complain. You took care of the last problem that I had. Everything’s been smooth sailing ever since. He smiled broadly at all of us, puffing out a perfect ring of smoke. I smiled back and wondered what, exactly, I was supposed to be taking notes on.

Good to hear. Barret said you had a job you wanted done. Major Goodall was determined not to get sucked into any of Mr. Smith’s familiarity.

Mr. Smith’s eyes very nearly twinkled at us and then he took the cigar out and answered.

Business is good. I can’t say that it’s perfect, though. Damn sight better than most places in the world, don’t I know it. Barret’s right, I do have a small matter that need attending to, he said, taking his boots off the desk and leaning forward in the chair. I found myself leaning forward to better hear what came next.

3

I ’ve got a small pain in my backside, pardon my language, young lady. Mr. Augie Smith twinkled his eyes at me. Up in Oklahoma, that is. You know, don’t you, Goodall, that I have some business interests up there?

Major Goodall shook his head.

First I’ve heard of it. I try not to poke my nose in too far.

Mr. Smith thought that was funny and laughed for a minute, again by himself. Tom followed Major Goodall’s lead and was sitting back, managing to look a little bored but watchful.

No, you don’t, do you? That’s why you’re such a popular man. You keep to yourself and get results, the best kind of employee a fellow like me can have. Mr. Smith kept chuckling and put his cigar back in his mouth. Major Goodall’s jaw had tightened listening to the whole speech, but he sat still.

What’s going on in Oklahoma? Tom asked when it became clear Mr. Smith was waiting for someone else to pick up the conversational lull.

All kinds of things, son, but the most important one to me is that I have oil interests up there in Indian country. Mr. Smith was polishing a pair of little reading glasses he’d pulled out of his pocket, squinting at them and then at Tom.

I thought the oil market was— Tom started to ask.

"It’s come back some. Better