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    The Identity Inquiry: Miss Fortune World, #1
    The Identity Inquiry: Miss Fortune World, #1
    The Identity Inquiry: Miss Fortune World, #1
    Ebook87 pages1 hour

    The Identity Inquiry: Miss Fortune World, #1

    By Kamaryn Kelsey

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    About this ebook

    Fortune, Ida Belle, and Gertie—Swamp Team 3—take a job helping a probate researcher locate a missing heiress. But finding the right Mary Elizabeth Smith won't be easy and not just because of her common name or the fact that she was adopted as a baby over 70 years ago. Other researchers are on the hunt, and they are all seeking the big payout for finding the right woman.

    Their search takes them to nursing homes and a clothing-optional day spa for seniors, where Gertie is in her element and out of her clothes with only a bath towel—and her pistol—and her phone. What could go wrong? Gertie, a nude spa, and her missing gun for starters. Join Fortune and the team as they try to find the missing Mary, retrieve Gertie's pistol, and collect a big paycheck before time runs out.

    Authors note: This is Fan Fiction. It is not written by the original author, but by a fan who has special permission to create stories using the author's characters and locations.

    Special thanks to Jana DeLeon and J&R Fan Fiction for making this possible.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherJ&R Fan Fiction
    Release dateDec 10, 2019
    ISBN9781393406617
    The Identity Inquiry: Miss Fortune World, #1

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      Book preview

      The Identity Inquiry - Kamaryn Kelsey

      Authors note: This is Fan Fiction. It is not written by the original author, but by a fan who has special permission to create stories using the author's characters and locations. The events/timeline may not coincide with those in the original Miss Fortune series.

      Special thanks to Jana DeLeon and J&R Fan Fiction for making this possible.

      Cover design by Heidi Sutherlin - https://www.upwork.com/fl/heidisutherlin

      Line editing and beta reading by Kit Dawson.

      Chapter 1

      INVIGORATED FROM MY run, I took five minutes to wind down with a few stretches in the front yard. My good mood lasted until I saw the weekly community newspaper in my bushes—again. I swore that darn kid did it on purpose. Grumbling at his poor aim, I nearly fell into the prickly shrub when the paper dropped a few more inches as I reached for it. I swiped at the rolled bundle and managed to dislodge it, sending it into the air, and it landed on my front porch.

      I snorted and wondered why the kid's parents didn't send him to baseball camp. If I could hit my front porch with one swat from the bushes, surely he could manage to hit the target on occasion. But the weekly paper had not once made it to my porch since I had moved into Marge Boudreaux's house.

      Trotting across the porch, I paused to scoop up the newspaper before I opened my door and dropped it on a small table to read later. As irritating as I found the poor delivery, I'd grown accustomed to the quirky little paper with stories like how to dress potbelly pigs or the results of a tobacco spitting contest. I'd enjoy it with a long bath one evening this week.

      A quick look at the clock told me to get moving or I'd have to meet my client dressed as I was. I hustled up the stairs and bounced back out the front door less than ten minutes later wearing white shorts with a sleeveless blouse, sneakers, and my hair in a ponytail. I drove my Jeep to Francine's and parked in front, checking my reflection in the rearview mirror briefly before heading to the café.

      It came as no surprise to see Ida Belle and Gertie at our usual back table. I smiled and waved before grabbing a table closer to the front. This would work until I had a better place for interviewing clients. Besides, with my run out of the way, I was free to indulge in a piece of homemade dessert. I knew my partners were curious about the meeting, but we agreed the three of us might prove intimidating so I would conduct the interview.

      Everyone in the café turned when a man carrying a folder and wearing gray slacks and a white Oxford shirt entered. Mid-forties, six feet three, 240 pounds, weak legs, and a ring of fat around his waistline. Threat level: low. He'd have to catch his target before he could squeeze them with his surprisingly powerful-looking hands. He glanced around, and when I stood, he headed to my table. Mr. Willingham? I offered him my hand, which he shook before pulling out the chair opposite mine.

      Call me Todd. In a nice show of manners, he waited for me to be seated before taking his. Dixie, the waitress, immediately came over to see what she could glean for the gossip mill. I tossed her a few seeds by giving her his name, sure the busybodies would grow them into towering falsehoods and monumental impossibilities by the end of the day. The fact that they were usually wrong didn't deter them a bit. If anything, it inspired them to creative highs and flights of imagination.

      Do you always introduce strangers to the locals? he asked curiously after Dixie had taken his order of coffee and pie.

      I hope you don't mind, but if they don't get something to gnaw on, we won't get any peace. Instead, they'll try to sneak pictures of you to send out along their network for identification or stop by to chat with the purpose of grilling you, I explained, hoping he wouldn't take offense. Perhaps meeting here had been a mistake.

      Maybe I should hire them, he said with a smile. I knew he was joking, but I learned my lesson and made a mental note not to have initial meetings here again. But upon seeing his face once he tried the pie, I put a question mark next to my decision. I might end up paying Francine a commission instead.

      After a few bites and the usual introductory conversation about the weather and traffic—his, not mine—we got down to business. He opened the folder sitting on the table next to his plate and handed me a page from it. This explains my business of connecting unclaimed assets to their rightful owner. When I learn of something—say, stocks that were purchased a few decades ago that are now worth a considerable amount of money—I find the person who has the legal right to it and, for a percentage of the value, I help them through the claims process. I'm trying to find someone here in Louisiana, and I'd like your assistance.

      I perused the information and carefully checked the letterhead: Todd Willingham, Probate Researcher. Nothing says novice scam artists like blurred, smeared, or crooked printing. But the page included his full name and contact information, something I could easily verify. So he wasn't scamming me. I nodded and moved the paper to my right and accepted another.

      The next page read Mary Elizabeth Smith. 75 years old. Born February 1945 in Little Rock, Arkansas. I glanced up at him, unsure what he expected me to do with the information. After all, it was his business to find people, and surely he must have resources at his disposal for that purpose. He gave me a wry look. It's not that easy. This particular Mary Smith was given up for adoption soon after her birth, and the courthouse where the adoption records were stored was destroyed in a fire back in the 1960s.

      Do you know if she's still alive? I asked.

      "Well, I'm banking on it—to the tune of I can retire—if I can find the right woman and prove it. Let me give you her background. Mary's parents were very poor and already had six children when she was born. Rather than try to raise another child under those circumstances, they chose to give her up. Fast forward ten years. Her father patented a mechanical device and got rich when

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