The Case of the Ice Man
A Laurel Private Eye Mystery
Shannon D. Wells
Pearl Handle Press
Copyright © 2019 by Shannon D. Wells
Cover ©Jennifer Zemanek/Seedlings Design Studio
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Shannon D. Wells Books
The Case of Bonnie and Clyde
*Tom’s Weekend 1932 (Novellette)
The Case of the Ice Man
The Case of the Osage Heiress
*The Tale of Viola and Thelma (Short Story)
To receive exclusive, free copies of the novelettes and short stories, please go to www.shannondwells.com and join up with the Readers Group. They are available only via the Readers Group.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Historical Note
Note from Author
Also by Shannon D. Wells
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 absence.
“Hello, Pinkerton’s Detective Agency, how may I help you this afternoon?”
“Hello? Hello? I must speak to a detective at once! It’s life or death!” A woman’s high-pitched voice shrieked at me through the receiver, on the edge of something terrible. I looked at the empty office, weighed it against her panic, and took a deep breath.
“I’m a detective, ma’am, what can I do for you?”
“You’re a detective?” Hysterical peals of laughter followed the question, then cut off. “I need a real detective, it’s urgent!”
“Yes, ma’am, I understand. I am the only available detective at the moment. What can I do for you?” I spoke slowly and forcefully, hoping to will her into calming down.
“I need someone to come to the house right away, and I do mean straight away. Can you come right now?” The words babbled like they were tripping over rocks on the way.
“Yes, ma’am, where should I meet you?”
“Meet me? Just come to the house, 605 Swiss Avenue, can’t miss it. We’re the pink one on the left!” The caller hung up and I was left staring at the phone. I carefully placed the earpiece on its cradle, pondering my options. The woman hadn’t sounded in control of herself, but the address she gave was attention worthy. Swiss Avenue had some of the nicest houses in the city; she wouldn’t call for a detective with such urgency without a reason.
Then there was the matter of what to do about the office? I wasn’t a real detective yet. I hadn’t learned anything since our last—almost—disastrous outing. I was quite sure that Mr. Barret, head of the agency, would have someone else in mind for this job.
On the other hand, I replayed the absolute panic that I had heard in her voice in my mind. No, I decided I would go and see what I could do to help the woman who’d called. I wrote Ms. Jacobs a note, giving her the address I was going to, and letting her know all of the information I had. It took very little time or room to convey that.
Surely the office can handle being shut for a few min— The phone was ringing again.
“Pinkerton Detective Agency, how can I help you?”
“Why aren’t you here yet?” It was the same woman.
“I’m on my way, ma’am.”
“Good. If you see my husband on the way, make sure to bring him with you.” The line went dead again.
3
I used my time in the taxi I summoned on the company dime to ponder what she could have meant by any of that. I hoped to goodness that this was a real case. Otherwise, I wasted all of the goodwill I had built up in the past two months by charging the company for visiting a crazy woman.
The taxi stopped in front of what was, indeed, a beautiful pink, Spanish-style house. It was surrounded by low oleander bushes that looked tropical even in the cold.
I took a second to arrange myself, patting my hair into place, straightening my coat and hat, and making sure my gloves were perfect.
The houses down this street practically glittered with money, set high and back from the street to maintain privacy. They looked like they kept their secrets well, especially now that it was so chilly out.
I rang the front bell and waited a moment, then knocked. Footsteps approached from the other side, the door was opened halfway by a black maid wearing a uniform. She looked at me like I was another nuisance in a trying day.
“No one is available for visitors, ma’am,” she said, starting to close the door.
“I’m a detective. The lady of the house sent for me,” I said, stepping forward and catching the edge of the door with my hand. She looked at me for a moment, deciding my fate, when more footsteps approached from the other side.
“Who is it, Persephone?” the voice from the phone slurred. She sounded less shrill. I wondered what had changed.
“A lady who says she’s a detective, ma’am,” Persephone said, facing away from me.
“Ohhhh, good.” An otherwise beautiful face, probably in its forties, poked out the door. Her hair was in a wild tangle on top of her head, complemented by red-rimmed eyes surrounded by black smudges.
“Hello, I'm Detective Mrs. Laurel Robertson,” I said, offering my hand. I wasn’t sure what my correct title should be. She looked at my hand, then up at my face. She took a step back into the house, waving me in.
“And I’m Mrs. Gerald Eymann of Eymann Ice. When you think ice man, think Eymann! Welcome to our home.” She gestured grandly around in a swoop. The little jingle clicked the name into place in my head. One of the bigger ice companies in town; some of my neighbors got deliveries from them.
She was wearing an absolutely gorgeous silk housedress with feathers on the hemline. I’d only seen such a thing in movies, but there she was wearing it around the house like it was nothing. The house was chilly too, high ceilings made it difficult to keep warm, I’d wager.
She swept in front of me, leading me to the sitting room with a grand fireplace and mirror that reflected the room's ornate interior. Every surface seemed to be hand-carved wood, covered in little picture frames and knickknacks. I thought I managed not to gawp, but it was only through sustained effort.
“Did you find him?” she asked, as she sunk into a velvet sofa.
“I did not find anyone on the way here. Do you mind telling me exactly what you need my services for, Mrs. Eymann?”
She looked at me, or in my general direction, her eyes unfocused, and then seemingly reached back into her mind to pull out a thought.
“I need you to find Gerald. He’s missing. Didn’t I tell you that already?”
“Oh, I see, your husband.” I nodded even as my stomach dropped. Missing husbands were something I had all-too-personal experience with. “Where did you last see him?”
She pointed to a door across the foyer. “He’s gone.”
“When did you first discover he was missing?”
“Oh, just a bit ago. Right before I called you. Say,” she leaned forward, “how did you get here so fast? Were you on an airplane?”
I pursed my lips and looked at her, trying to weigh answers, then gave up. Whatever was influencing her, I wouldn’t be able to outthink it.
“No, ma’am. I came in a regular car. How did you know he is missing?”
“Max came over. He was supposed to have seen Gerald at Crestman Prescott, Prestman Hillcost… Anyway, he was supposed to be there. And he wasn’t!” She sat upright now, looking angry, her voice rising at the end.
“Ma’am, if you don’t mind me asking, are you… well? You seem… different than on the phone just a few minutes ago.” That w
as as tactful as I could make the question.
Persephone appeared in the doorway and was now standing behind Mrs. Eymann’s sofa with a glass of water in hand. She opened her mouth, but Mrs. Eymann cut her off.
“I did take a pill or two, yes,” she admitted, shamefaced.
“Ah, I suppose the stress…,” I bumbled.
“They’re prescribed! Max gave them to me for nerves. And let me tell you, Gerald getting lost like this is bad for my nerves!” she declared, leaning back into the couch now. She pointed at a beautiful lap robe sitting on the ottoman in the corner. Persephone fetched it for her, then left once the mistress of the house was settled in it.
Mrs. Gerald Eymann arranged then rearranged the thick blanket. Now she was clutching a small framed picture that she grabbed from the end table.
“I want to go through the past few days, to see if anything happened out of the ordinary.”
“Certainly,” she said as she adjusted the robe again around her legs; one kept kicking to a beat only she heard. In vino veritas, I reminded myself and plunged in.
“What did y'all do this past weekend?”
“The Apache Club.”
“Where is that?” I wracked my brain; it sounded familiar, but I didn’t remember where I’d seen it. The papers?
“Downtown, it's in one of the hotels. Had dinner with Max and Gerald.”
“The three of you?”
She looked at me confused, then picked up a different picture from the side table. The frame was some kind of porcelain.
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