Road to the Mansfield (Express Investigations Prequel) Historical Mystery by CB Laurence ➱ Book Tour with Rafflecopter
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Road to the Mansfield
An Express Investigations Prequel
by CB Laurence
Genre: Historical Mystery
Three stories. One destination.
A
swamp rat-turned lady, a hotshot southern attorney, and a small-town
dreamer endure life’s cruel twists on the way to Hollywood’s
swanky Mansfield Supper Club.
Louisiana,
1927. A
brutal fate sweeps seventeen-year-old Francie Roubideaux from the
Louisiana bayou to the iron rule of Miss Claire in New Orleans. She
survives using her daddy’s wits and mama’s grace, but fickle
fortune isn’t done with her yet….
Illinois,
1937. Rose
Donovan’s dreary small-town life takes a turn when a New York City
music man whisks her away to Hollywood. But soon she’s torn between
addictive passion and another man’s arms…and more than Rose’s
heart is on the line.
Georgia,
1936. A
rising star on the Atlanta legal circuit, Beau Hartwell is the envy
of every lawyer in the city…until his past desperately comes to
call. Can big-city Beau handle backwoods justice, or will the case
break more than his career?
In
one fateful night, their worlds collide in ways no one saw coming…
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Road to the Mansfield excerpt #1
Summer 1927
Alouette Parish, Louisiana
On the third night of the last full moon of summer, Françoise Rae Roubideaux stood poised to kill. Knee-deep in the warm freshwater of the bayou, her four-pronged gig raised over her shoulder, she aimed at a pair of red eyes the size of her baby brother’s belly button.
Thwack! The barbed blades sliced through the back of the fat bullfrog and straight to the other side. Dat one’s for Mama. She prodded and peeled her catch from the spikes then dropped it in a feed sack with the others before yanking the drawstring tight. One more and she’d have enough to buy Mama the coughing herbs from Madame Bérengère and have a little money left over for the general store.
Madame Bérengère loved frog legs almost as much as Daddy had. Every time Francie brought big, fat legs to trade, she’d say, “Francie, I declare! You da best frogger in all of Alouette Parish!”
It was true, too. Daddy taught her how to catch frogs with her bare hands at only four years old. “You smarter den dat ol’ frog,” he’d say. She’d cried the first time she saw Daddy smash one’s head with a hammer then cut and clean the legs. “Dere born to die, cher.” By the time she turned six, she caught frogs all summer long—even during the daytime.
Quiet as a dragonfly on the breeze, she crept along the bank in the shallow waters and thought about the good times with Daddy.
When Mama didn’t need her to help around the house, or to clean and cook the fish Francie had caught for supper, she’d be with him. They’d check his traps for raccoon and mink to skin and sell. They’d catch crawfish, shrimp, and crappie. Then they’d set up shop down at the pier. “Drive a hard bargain, cher. Don’ get soft or dey’ll take you for all you worth.”
The moon rose higher and higher in the sky and the sack weighed heavier on her shoulder. Thick bayou mud sucked at Francie’s shoes. One more chunky frog and she could go home. You gotta be out dere. You gotta be somewhere.
She held her kerosene lamp up high and scanned the reeds for red eyes. There! The biggest bullfrog yet set Francie’s heart to racing. Madame Bérengère would pay extra for this meaty fella. She stuck her gig in the mud. Only a hand catch would do—she wanted to keep it alive and fresh for as long as possible.
Careful not to break the beam of light currently freezing her prey, she silently edged closer. Quick as a cat, she shot her hand out to snatch the frog.
But another red-eyed beast had the same idea.
A cottonmouth snake struck out a half-second too late and missed the frog—and Francie’s hand—by less than an inch.
“Cho Laud!” Francie stumbled backward, holding her lantern in one hand, the prized frog in the other. She shoved the frog down her shirt, grabbed the gig, and backed her way up the bank, keeping her light high. The slimy, muddy body hopping and struggling against her naked belly did nothing for her nerves.
“Mais, dat was too close,” she said to her catch as she dropped him into the bag with the others. She untied her canoe from a big cypress tree and paddled toward home, taking great care to look out for more snakes—or heaven forbid, a gator—along the way.
Francie always thought about Daddy on nights like this—every night, truth be told—and how he’d have loved her story about the snake. His eyes would have twinkled, he would have swirled her around in a dance. “Aiyee! Dat’s my girl, Francie!”
A few months before Francie’s tenth birthday, Daddy went to jail. Mama said Daddy whupped some society gentleman something fierce when he refused to pay what he owed, so they threw him in jail up in Angola. She and Mama struggled to get by for two years—Francie hunted and traded, Mama sewed beautiful dresses for the fine ladies of New Orleans—until finally Daddy came home. Francie had been so happy to see him. She thought for sure he’d make their lives whole again, but when he returned, he didn’t laugh, or sing, or dance anymore. The twinkle had gone out. He drank moonshine noon to night. “Not today, cher,” he’d say when she asked him to go trapping or sing with her.
Mama and Daddy fought like two dogs over a ham bone until one day he left and didn’t come back. Francie waited for weeks—months—for him to come home. It had been over three years, and she still caught herself watching for him to walk up the drive.
She blamed Mama for chasing him off. Mama said, “Men can’t be trusted to do right by their women, Francie. Best you learn that now.”
Road to the Mansfield excerpt #2
As the final, jazzy strains dissolved from the airwaves, the sound of enthusiastic applause rocketed Rose back to Bidler. “Good gravy, Mr. Fender! You scared me half to death!” Clutching her chest she spun around to glare at her boss, but Mr. Fender wasn’t there.
In the doorway stood the most handsome man Rose had ever seen. Rain dripped from a well-pinched camel fedora and matching trench coat hanging on the cherry hat rack. His slick, jet-black hair and tan complexion accentuated strong features. He could have seemed intimidating, but at the moment, the edges of his mouth curled in a sweet smile, exposing deep laugh lines. “Sorry, miss.” The baritone voice fit him perfectly. “I didn’t mean to alarm you.”
Stunned silent by the surprise audience, Rose gawked as if she had never seen another human being in her life.
His midnight eyes, amused and sparkling, held Rose’s wide-eyed stare. He crossed the room in long, easy strides. “You are amazing—” Pulling his eyes from hers, he read her name tag. “Rose.” He brushed aside a stray lock of her hair before lacing his fingers into the shiny, brunette ribbons surrounding her face. His thumb made lazy circles along her cheek. “Beautiful.”
Completely captivated, Rose couldn’t move.
His heavy-lidded gaze followed his caress as it lingered under her chin, traveled down the soft curve of her neck, and played in the magnetic hollow of her collarbone. Her hand trembled in his as he raised it to his lips. “May I have this dance?”
Somewhere in the hazy background, Rose heard music. His left arm snaked around her tiny waist, his hand nestled in the arch of her back. He pulled her closer. Like two pieces of the same puzzle, they swirled across the floor in an effortless rhythm.
He crooned softly to the music, the deep timbre of his voice igniting every nerve ending.
Rose caught a glimpse of her reflection in the store window. In this dark stranger’s arms, she appeared radiant, sensuous…wanton. Suddenly frightened, she stiffened against him and pushed away.
“Uh-uh, Rose.” His lips grazed her ear, and he strengthened his hold on her. “Dance with me.”
She shook uncontrollably as if all at once every cell became aware she was locked in an embrace with a very strong, total stranger. Her breath came faster and faster in panicked waves as she pushed on the solid wall of his chest. “Please, leave me alone.”
“Are you sure that’s what you want?”
The simple question caught Rose off guard. She honestly didn’t know. Her body, heart, and soul wanted to dance with him forever, but her brain insisted. She nodded. “Let me go.”
He released her and placed his hand over his heart. “I’m a passionate man, Rose. If I’ve frightened you, please accept my humblest apologies.”
Road to the Mansfield excerpt #3
July 1936
Atlanta, Georgia
Two little words ended Beauregard Hartwell’s life as he knew it.
“Not guilty.” Mr. Swarsky, of Atlanta’s most prestigious law firm, Delle & Swarksy, clapped Beau hard on the shoulder, causing him to spill his Old Crow bourbon on his new cream-colored suit. “Beau, my boy, I knew you were somethin’ special seven years ago when I recruited you out of Emory Law, but that was a hell of a win. And now you’re a partner?” He chuckled. “Didn’t think I’d see the day so soon, son.”
Beau wiped the bourbon with his handkerchief. The title came with a private office and secretary, high-end retainer list, a more than significant raise, and currently, a lavish party in his honor at the Georgian Terrace Hotel attended by the upper echelon of the city’s legal circuit.
Not bad for a country boy.
“Well, I never had a doubt,” Mr. Delle said. “Your professors couldn’t stop singing your praises and your opponents in the mock trials couldn’t stop cursing your name. We’re lucky to have you, Hartwell.”
Beau flashed a dimpled grin. He’d never had a doubt, either. From the moment he met his wife, Caroline Fisher, of the Georgia Fishers, his path had been made clear—nothing less than the top would do. Not that he minded, of course. When he left Hanie County, he didn’t intend to go back—not as a farmer, anyway. “I appreciate the opportunity, sirs. It’s been an honor and a privilege to work beside you, and I look forward to many more years.”
“And his name on the door one day.” Caroline slipped her hand into the crook of his arm in her usual, familiar spot. The soft shimmer of the ballroom chandeliers reflected off her chin-length blonde curls, giving her an angelic glow. “I think Delle, Swarsky, & Hartwell sounds lovely, don’t y’all?”
Mr. Swarsky laughed again. “Well, beautiful lady, the way he’s piling up the victories—and high-paying clients—I wouldn’t put it past him.”
Caroline beamed at Beau. “Neither would I.”
He patted her hand and dropped his gaze to the floor with an ‘aw shucks’ shrug. “She’s my most ardent fan.”
And his biggest motivation. In his younger, pre-Caroline days, he thought he would’ve been satisfied working out of a dingy office trading chicken suppers for representation of the poor and underprivileged like Old Man Bingham in Hanie County. But that was before Caroline talked sense into him.
She’d put on her sweetest, sexiest smile—the kind that won arguments. “Make money first, then you can help all the needy souls you want, darling. But not before we move to Inman Park.”
So, he’d accepted the job at Delle & Swarsky and they’d moved into her dream home, but between his caseload and their social schedule, he didn’t have the time for pro bono cases. Old Man Bingham wouldn’t believe his eyes if he could see where Beau was today. Sometimes he didn’t believe it himself.
CB had been threatening to write the Mansfield stories for twelve years after being inspired by the Reba McEntire video for ‘Because of You.’ In 2020, she finally birthed the books. (Thank you, COVID) The Mansfield books launched The Express Investigations Series.
After bouncing around the country, CB settled in Phoenix for twenty years, but now connects to wi-fi in Texas. She lives with her seven-pound Yorkie, Benji, who rules her life with an iron paw.
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