The Missing Daughter Mystery: A J.D. Pierson Case File, #5

By C.H. Sessums

Jenny uses the excuse of a new case to set off on a romantic visit, but when things take a shocking twist, she heads back to Texas to follow a lead and avoid complications…

Dad and I take to the rails and head north on a new assignment to protect a highly insured diamond. I'm eager for the chance to spend time with my handsome friend Lee Gorham, but a surprise request is made just at the moment the priceless diamond disappears.  At the last minute, I jump onto another train heading south, but a strange turn of events might not only derail my plans but threaten my life, too.

Can Dad and I find the missing piece to the puzzle before the diamond and I are both gone for good?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cactus Rose Press
• Release date: Oct 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201575243

C.H. Sessums

C.H. Sessums is a pen name for USA Today Bestselling Author Olivia Hardin. While Olivia writes all manner of romance, C.H. scribbles out cozy mysteries set in her beloved state of Texas. Whether exploring urban legends from all over the lone star state or solving capers set in far off times, mystery meets history in all of her stories. In real life, C.H. lives in gorgeous East Texas with her hubby and their two rescue dogs. Every weekend all four of them pile up into their bunkhouse to watch classic movies and listen to old-time radio.

Book preview

Chapter 1

March 21, 1938

He seems incredibly young now, I thought as I watched the proceedings with a somber gaze.  A tuft of hair dropped against the man’s forehead when he put his chin to his chest.  The attorney next to him gave him a little nudge, and he raised his eyes, eyes like saucers to gaze out at twelve people staring back. 

Swallowing, I gritted my teeth as I waited for the verdict, shaking my head and repeating to myself again, He seems so, so young.

He might have been Jimmy Wilder from my hometown of Tyler.  He might even have been Bradley Jennings, the young beneficiary I’d met during our Texas Ranger case, or maybe Ollie Watkins the yacht club mate when I’d investigated the Doubtful Death matter.  Young and mostly naive.  Certainly not the same rabid man who’d tossed a can of gasoline at me when I’d caught him just a few months ago.

There had been a rash of vehicle fires over the last year.  Insurance money seemed like a quick fix for people who were hurting financially in the hard times.  But then insurance companies weren’t immune to the economic downturn, either, and they needed to start sending a big message to those who torched their own cars.  A recent article in one local newspaper had even described the crimes as vicious and reprehensible. 

But now, looking at John Bell Shroeder, I could only think how young and pitiful he was to have stooped to such a level.  The verdict was what we all expected—even Shroeder, I imagined, since he didn’t so much as flinch when the word was read: Guilty.

The gallery emptied out, and I sat there in silence a moment.  I thought again of Bradley Jennings and his desperate oath that he would change his life, become the person an old janitor had once believed he could.  Might things have been different for John Bell Schroeder had someone given him a second chance?

Fishing into my handbag, I found my handkerchief and brushed it across my sensitive nose.  The on and off weather cycle that heralded the coming spring in East Texas always played havoc on my sinuses.  Dad had fussed about all of my running around for business because he insisted I would catch a cold.

But there was no rest for the weary, so I pushed up from my seat and hurried out to my father’s Model A Ford.

I started to put my hand on the throttle, but a sneeze came on without warning, and I quickly used both hands to hold my handkerchief to my face.  I always suffered a second sneeze, and when that one was passed, I took a deep breath and adjusted the throttle as I pressed on the starter pedal. 

Listening to the hum as the engine warmed up, I thought of my dad’s musings just a few weeks ago that we should invest in a new vehicle.  To me, though, it seemed a shame to let go of such a reliable machine.  But he’d been smitten the day Lee drove through for a visit a week or so after Christmas, his brand-new Lincoln Zephyr winking sharply with a wax shine.

Boyo, isn’t this a fine automobile? Dad had gushed, walking around the car with covetous eyes.  Lee had given him the keys to take her for a spin, seizing the opportunity for the two of us to sit on the porch swing in privacy.  I couldn’t remember all we’d chatted about, but I certainly recalled the warm feel of his hand holding mine.

Now, arriving back in Tyler, I found throngs of cars were lined up down Bois D’Arc and Erwin near Marvin Methodist Church where the community was laying to rest one of our beloved fire marshals.  Daniel Seale had succumbed to pneumonia the week before, the second such death of a prominent citizen in as many months.  I parked our car on the courthouse square and peeked off in the direction of the church, then marched to the door of our building.

The People’s National Bank was unusually quiet, and I imagined the town was giving our faithful community servant the send-off he deserved.  I regretted I hadn’t returned from court in time to attend the service with my dad. 

I found a stack of mail on my desk and immediately plopped into my seat to begin opening it.  It was only three o’clock in the afternoon, but I thought I could just as well go home and fall into bed for a nap.  Another pair of sneezes interrupted that thought, and then a tickle in the back of my throat followed, and I coughed a bit. 

I refused to believe my dad was right and I was getting a cold.  A working woman didn’t have time for colds.  As if to prove that point, the phone issued a shrill ring.  Picking up the receiver, I put it to my ear and leaned back in my chair to prop my feet on the desk.

J.D. Pierson’s office.

Well, if it isn’t the fairer J.D. I immediately recognized Frank Covington’s nasally voice. "The old man makes you answer the phone and work the cases now, eh?"

I’m a jack of all trades, Mr. Covington.  How are things at Sunflower Life and Casualty?

Oh, not good, Miss Pierson.  Not good at all.  And it’s giving me a terrible case of heartburn.  You wouldn’t believe how terrible. I’m surprised my ulcers haven’t ruptured.

Leaning forward, I picked up a pencil, dragging a pad of paper closer to me so that I could take notes as soon as the man finished wailing about his ulcers and gave me the reason for his call. To push things along, I finally said, What seems to be the problem, Mr. Covington?

The daughter is my problem, and I knew the moment I received the call that good ol’ J.D. was the only man for the job.

Your daughter? But I thought you only had sons, Mr. Covington? My brows pursed together in a frown.

Ah, ha ha, Miss Pierson, he chuckled, then groaned. Oh, this ulcer.  I swear to you, if J.D. doesn’t immediately head to Michigan I don’t know what I’ll do.

Mr. Covington, perhaps you should give me some more information, I suggested, exasperated by his inability to simply provide the details.

"Oh, yes, yes, so as I was saying, the Daughter is the problem.  Not my daughter, but a diamond called ‘The Daughter.’ In 1857, a tremendous diamond was discovered by a man named Trenton Wainwright.  A total of 57.9 carats.  He hired a master cutter to finish the stone, and it was cut into two pieces,  the larger of which he chose to affectionately call Daughter.  Wainwright had seven children, all boys, you know."

No, I must say I didn’t know that, I replied drolly as I scribbled down notes in shorthand.

Yes, well, as I was saying, The Daughter now belongs to Mr. Wainwright’s granddaughter, Agatha Wainwright.  And she’s lost it!  The foolish woman just carries it around willy-nilly, and now she’s lost it.  And the company will be out fifteen thousand dollars if it can’t be found.  Did you hear me, Miss Pierson?  Fifteen thousand dollars!

Chapter 2

After taking care of the mail and making a quick deposit at the bank, I decided a walk might do me a world of good.  Since Dad still hadn’t returned to the office by four o’clock, I chose to leave the car for him.  The afternoon sun had turned the frosty morning into a pleasant afternoon, and I raised my face to soak up the warmth as I stepped out of the building and into the fresh air.

After making a quick stop at Brookshire’s Grocery, I set out for home. If I’d been worried the walk might steal the last of my energy, I needn’t have been.  The sunshine exhilarated me, and I felt better by the time I turned the knob on the front door to step into the Sears Roebuck home my parents had built before I was born.

My newly discovered energy was fortunate because I knew even before I crossed the threshold that someone would be anxious for her own stroll around the block. Dolly, my little corgi, must have heard me coming because she was there waiting, her tail wagging so fast her backside wiggled to and fro. 

Hello, little miss, I crooned as I crouched down to give her a proper pet on the head, then a belly rub when she rolled over onto her back. Did you miss me?

She whined to tell me she had, then bounded to her feet when I stood up to place my purse on the table beside the door.  From the corner of my eye, I saw her pause expectantly, waiting to find out if I would pick up the leash hanging on the coat rack. 

Give me just a few minutes, girl, I instructed with a point of my finger, then headed for the kitchen to start supper, Dolly right on my heels.

With the oven heating, I pulled a bowl down from the cabinet and combined milk and bread, setting them aside to soak while I poured a small amount of milk into a little saucer for Dolly.  She’d become spoiled to getting some any time it came out of the icebox. 

When the bread mixture was ready, I added seasonings and vegetables, then stirred it all into a mush before adding some ground meat.  These were still lean times for everyone, but we were fortunate with regular business coming in these days, and so I’d taken to cooking more of my mother’s old recipes.

Meatloaf was a favorite of Dad’s, though I wasn’t as fond of it.   

I hoped a nice meal, particularly one he loved, would make Dad more receptive to the plan I’d concocted after speaking with Mr. Covington.  His call had sparked an idea, and although he’d been quite insistent that this was a job for J.D. Pierson and not Jenny Dee Pierson, I wasn’t about to let that stop me.

I smothered the top of the meat and bread mixture with ketchup before putting the pan into the oven to bake. That chore done, I picked up Dolly’s dish and rinsed it in the sink then headed back to the front room.

As I approached the hall tree near the door, I could sense two little corgi eyes watching me.  I moved slowly, enjoying her anticipation and the little mewling sound she made as her tail began to swoosh again. 

Finally, I grabbed the strap on the hat stand and turned quickly around to face her. Are you ready for a walk?

She made two little leaps onto her back legs, then obediently sat her rump down to wait for me to attach her collar and leash.

The linked chain I fastened around her neck could more appropriately be called a piece of jewelry with little dangles all along the length.  Five bone-shaped charms of assorted colors with great big rhinestones blinked at me in the sunlight peeking through the front window.  I bristled a little as I fastened the clasp, then clipped the matching leather leash to the hook. 

On December 31st a package had arrived at our home, and my heart had sped up in excitement because I’d believed it was a late-arriving Christmas gift for me. Inside, I found a box with an envelope with Dolly’s name affixed to the top:

For the best guard dog with the sweetest kisses, from Blake.

It seemed my dog rated a holiday present from Mr. Broadmore, but I did not.  And after all I’d done for him on the Doubtful Death matter, too.  I’d successfully avoided his calls and contacts since that day.

I sniffed at the memory and shook my head as I opened the door for Dolly to bolt out into the waning sunshine.  She prissed proudly towards the sidewalk, then paused and darted into the grass to take a quick stop for the call of nature.  Finished with that, she proceeded off down our normal promenade route, eyes keenly looking for any passerby who might admire her.  My Dolly never ceased to draw attention, with or without her fancy collar, and she’d learned to expect it.

We returned from our walk about fifteen minutes later, and I leaned down to remove the collar, putting it in its place of honor beside the door.  Dad had chided me about that, insisting I should just leave it on her all the time.  But I’d complained that it jangled at night and kept me from a good sleep.  Besides, why would I take the