A Tiny Collierville Murder

  A Tiny Collierville Murder Copyright © 2017

  Shondra C. Longino. All rights reserved.

  This eBook is intended for personal use only and may not be reproduced, transmitted, or redistributed in any way without the express written consent of the author.

  A Tiny Collierville Murder is a work of fiction. Any references or similarities to actual events, organizations, real people - living, or dead, or to real locales are intended to give the novel a sense of reality. All other events and characters portrayed are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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  Cover Design by Shondra C. Longino

  Prologue

  Los Angeles, California

  Bloomingdales

  His eyes bore into mine. Electric blue, they seemed to spark with desire. Excitement was tingling through me too, but I wasn’t that kind of girl. No. I wasn’t one to give in easily, no matter how passionate his pleas became.

  I took in a deep breath, and with a wag of my head, tossed back my wavy black hair that had fallen into my face. A thin layer of moisture had made tendrils of it stick to my forehead and cheeks – sweat that my body had emitted in reaction to the intensity of the moment. My insides were twitching and trembling, and I could almost hear the adrenaline pumping through my veins. But I didn’t chance moving even one hand to swipe away my anxiety, it might have given him the advantage.

  The ends of his mouth curled slightly - I think he sensed my heightened emotion and took it as a sign that he was wearing me down.

  He licked his lips.

  I chewed on mine.

  Nervousness seeping through, I felt another bead of perspiration pop up on my forehead and roll down into my eye.

  Thank goodness I had on my waterproof Clea de Peau Perfect Lash Mascara.

  No. I wasn’t going to give in. I couldn’t because I knew if I did I would regret this moment for a long while.

  Maybe even the rest of my life.

  I let out a moan as I watched his jaw clench and felt my hand being pulled toward him as he tightened his grip.

  Then he whispered out an almost irresistible, “Please.”

  For a brief moment, I considered letting go. Giving in to him. To his pleas. But I couldn’t.

  I just wouldn’t.

  Then I heard that woman crying.

  Sobbing.

  And that “Need-To-Help-Everyone-I-See” bone in my body that I had inherited from my mother went into overdrive.

  What is wrong with her? I thought as she let out another wail. Oh my, she sounds like the world is coming to an end. Maybe I should go over to help . . .

  No!

  I jerked my attention back to the situation at hand. I had to concentrate. I shook my head and adjusting my stance, shifted my thoughts back to Mr. Blue Eyes. But as another one of that woman’s piercing shrieks bounced off my eardrum, I knew I probably wasn’t going to last in this match much longer.

  I stretched my neck and narrowed my eyes at Blue Eyed Guy who stood across from me at the sale table in Beverly Center’s Bloomingdale’s handbag department. I slowly lowered my gaze to get another look at the plum-colored Chanel Quilted Deauville bag we were playing a tug-of-war with.

  Probably my last look . . .

  The large red clearance tag dangling precariously between the two ends of the strap we desperately clung to was calling out to me: Yes! Spend your rent money. You don’t need to eat! Buy me! Don’t let him win!

  Well, at least my grip was one of desperation. It had to be because even with the displayed deeply discounted price (and the additional 25% off coupon I had tucked safely away in my wallet), I couldn’t afford to pay for that Chanel bag and still have a place to live.

  But I wanted that bag. I had been waiting for it to go on sale from the first time I had spotted it behind that sparkling glass case, centered strategically under a megawatt recessed light, a year ago.

  Yes it was last year’s line (or maybe even the year’s before), but that was the only way I could afford to have one. And now it was the only one left, and I had to have it.

  And so did his wife, for their wedding anniversary, or so Mr. Blue Eyes had told me over and over again.

  I mean, I had to give it to him. It was a creative way to give the traditional leather gift that husbands gave their wives to celebrate year three of marital bliss, but these were modern times. It was okay to give glass, crystal or even pearls.

  Hallmark wasn’t even a bad choice.

  I didn’t understand why he just couldn’t snap a picture of that ruggedly handsome jawline and those disarmingly electric blue eyes I’d been staring into, stick it into a crystal frame, and slap a bow on it. Buying an expensive Chanel bag, even if it was 60% off, for only a few years of marriage was a big risk. Little wifey would only expect something more expensive and extravagant with each coming year. He had to see that letting me buy the bag was only going to help him in the long run.

  And then came that woman’s wail again and I knew I wasn’t going to have time to persuade him with my dazzling reasoning.

  I knew I was going to have to let go.

  I glanced over at the crying woman. Even if her words had been audible through her blabbering, none of the people who’d come to help were going to know what she was talking about.

  Her pleas were in Japanese.

  Well mostly. There were some English words peppered in. That made me know she had a grasp of our language. And that had me thinking that if she hadn’t been so upset her native tongue may not have kicked in so forcefully and I wouldn’t have to give up on my little contest for the plum calf skin purse I had going with Anniversary Man.

  Even more reason to go and help her . . .

  It appeared that the wailing woman’s three-year-old daughter had taken off, or at least that’s what I could make out from where I stood, and now she couldn’t find her. Adding to her problems, the saleswoman she was talking to, and seemingly all the gawkers staring at her, couldn’t understand one word uttered, and without me, I knew, she’d never get a search-and-rescue party assembled.

  I looked at Mr. Electric Blue Eyes and knew if I wanted that purse I was going to have to act quickly, because the Neglectful Nurturer was losing it fast. I also knew the only way to get that purse away from Anniversary Guy’s grubby, strong, yet smooth, hands was if I used a knife-hand strike to his wrist. The pain that would vibrate up his arm, attacking and scrambling the synapses of his nerves would cause him to lose his grip almost instantaneously.

  I let out a long sigh.

  Yes that would work, but it wasn’t right to use my martial arts abilities to harm people without some aggression from them. And so far our contest of will and might had not been hostile. I knew a karate chop to the carpals certainly shouldn’t be used to get a handbag. I could just see that prideful grin that Master Lewis had had on his face when he presented me with my black belt turn into a frown at the thought of me using my skills for worldly gain. It just wouldn’t be right. Even if it was for a Chanel.

  Omg!

  In a huff, I reluctantly let the chain strap slide through my now limp fingers, each link bumping over the tips as Anniversary Guy snatched it and ran. I turned and walked away, a long moan pushing out as I headed over to the small crowd surrounding Wailing Woman. I didn’t look back – defeat is a hard pill to swallow.

  “A na ta no na ma eh wa nan des ka?” I asked Crying Lady her name as I squeezed through the group of people to stand next to her.

  Everyone turned and looked at me. My almond shaped eyes, more wide tha
n hooded, may have given away a hint of my Japanese heritage, but my dark skin and wavy hair wouldn’t lead anyone to think I could speak it.

  I was a mutt, just like my mix breed, mostly cockapoo, dog I had waiting in the parking lot for me in my car. I had all the windows rolled down halfway, but even with all the fresh air I was sure he was just as unhappy having to continue to wait for me now that I was on Child Finding Duties as I had been having to give up that Chanel bag.

  My father was half Japanese, half black – his African American GI dad taking a Japanese bride while he was stationed there during the US’s occupation post World War II. His mother, my Baba as I called her, and my maternal grandfather pretty much raised me after my parents became ex-pats with their move to France when I was seven.

  My mother was first generation Yugoslavian (not a country anymore, I know, but try telling my grandfather that). So there was all kinds of languages being thrown at me while I was growing up, and like a sponge, I soaked them all in. And after I’d made LA my new home, I had been bombarded with Spanish speakers, and could spit the language back out with an uncanny ease. That made me a polyglot. I spoke five languages. Slovene, French, Spanish, English, and coming in handy today, Japanese.

  Mouths still opened, I asked again her name. My own brand of psychology, I thought getting personal might help calm her down. “A na ta no na ma eh wa nan des ka?” I said.

  She answered through hiccup filled sobs. “Watashi no namae wa Ayako desu.”

  Ayako. Pretty name, I thought. I wonder what it means. With my mixed bag of ethnicities, you’d think I get a nice Asian or southeast European name. But no, all I got was a made up one – Nixie which, my father said, was the only name he could think of to go with our last name – Culpepper – in the ten seconds the nurse had given him to fill out the birth certificate. He and my mom had only picked out boys’ names and still hadn’t come up with anything three days after their bouncing seven-pound daughter was born and it was time for my mother to be discharged from the hospital.

  I shook my head to clear my wandering thoughts. Gotta stay focused. I was there to help.

  I glanced over my shoulder and saw Mr. Electric Blue Eyes at the check-out with my purse, I blew out a breath, and turned back to the woman. “Okay. Ayako. Let’s see what we can do to find your daughter,” I said in Japanese.

  She burst into tears again and explained how she’d been transformed from a loving, doting watchful mother to the blubbering, neglectful one that was melting down right in front of my eyes.

  But I spoke calmly back to her, explaining how I – we – couldn’t help if we couldn’t understand her. (I had explained in English the situation to everyone and as I relayed back to her, they too had all agreed to help.)

  She let out a sigh of relief, as did all the onlookers, then she verbally retraced her steps to me, mostly in Japanese. As she spoke, I nodded my head to let her know I understood, everyone mimicking my gestures eager to know, even if they couldn’t decipher her words, what had happened.

  Finally I took her by the hand and we set off, the group following close behind, to the last place she’d seen the little escapee.

  Chapter One

  Memphis, Tennessee

  Two months later . . .

  Low-lit room. Shiny, flashing strobe lights. Loud music vibrations. I’d strolled into the Mollie Fontaine Lounge, an old haunt in Memphis. It was housed in a cool three-story Victorian mansion with oddly shaped and colorful funky retro furniture and illuminated with multi-hued, single Edison bulbs. It even had a sparkly, old-fashioned chandelier center-stage on the first floor.

  I strutted past the first floor parlor where someone was tinkling the ivories on the old piano. I put my red quilted Gucci chain-strap purse over my head, stuck my arm through resting it across my body, and mounted the wooden steps on the toes of my yellow Jimmy Choo stiletto heels.

  When I got to the second floor, I found a full bar, and a DJ mixing it up, with a live band waiting in the wings. The owner of the lounge I had heard, was Karen Carrier of The Beauty Shop fame. And found, even in this night club and true to her reputation, there was something scrumptious being served. I had to cover my mouth to put a plug in the drool dribbling out when I saw the picture of a rich and luscious Crème Brulee - one of my favs – on the menu.

  Oooh! I knew this night was going to be fun! I was going to go at it full-force - drinking, eating, and listening to some soulful Memphis sounds.

  A yummy, fruity concoction with speared juicy orange slices and maraschino cherries atop in hand, and giggles bubbling through my body I bounced to the beat of the music after leaving the bar and found an empty seat. I sat on a purple high-back tufted loveseat and took a sip through the tiny straw and smiled.

  “This place is so cool!” I leaned over and yelled to the guy next to me. He hadn’t been subtle, eyeing me since I walked in, even following me to the seating area I’d found. He was kind of cute, and I was here to have a good time, so I decided to strike up a conversation. What could it hurt?

  “You’re pretty cool, too” he yelled back. “Where are you from?”

  “Don’t I look like I’m from Memphis?” I said pulling the cherry off the small stick and popping it in my mouth.

  “We just get so many tourists that I just never assume,” he said and moved from the chair he sat in to the love seat next to me. “And I’ve been watching you, you’re definitely not from here.”

  “Watching me?’ I eyed him over my drink.

  “You’re pretty,” he said. “All decked out in your designer wear.”

  I glanced down at my Gucci purse and yellow polka dot Venus halter dress. I did look pretty fabulous.

  And he was right. I wasn’t from Memphis. I was from Connors Grove, a small town in upstate New York. But I had long left there and had moved to LA to make it big. Like Kim Kardashian, I had no talent to speak of, but that hadn’t stopped her from becoming rich and famous, and I had thought, Why let it stop me?

  But like the Gladys Knight and the Pips’ song lyrics, “LA proved too much” for me. Paying rent and keeping up with the latest designer wear, let me know that “I couldn’t make it, so I left the life I’d come to know . . .”

  Only I wasn’t taking the Midnight Train back home. My rescue mutt, Alfie, and I were in my Orange Burst Chevy Sonic hatchback. And I was so reluctant to get back to my small, sleepy town that I had taken the scenic route back home. Crossing the country, seeing all I could of big city America before my life was relegated back to the norm, one tourist stop destination at a time.

  “So you’re from Memphis?” I asked, no need telling him my hard luck story.

  “Born and bred.” He scooted in a little closer. “But, I travel a lot.”

  “You travel a lot?”

  He was beginning to sound interesting. A man of the world. I scrunched my nose. I wonder was he mysterious too.

  “Yep. For work,” he said. “I’m a house sitter.”

  “House sitter?” Now that was an attention-grabbing occupation. I sat my drink down on the coffee table in front of me and turned slightly in my seat to face him.

  “Yep,” he said smiling, obviously noting that he’d piqued my curiosity. “I travel all over the country and sit at people’s houses while they go out of town on vacation.” He did the air quote thing at the word “sit.”

  “Now that’s cool,” I said. “So,” I cocked my head to the side. “Someone pays you to do that?”

  He looked a little scruffy, but in a cute way. I reached over and moved his hair out his of eyes. He gave me a crooked smile.

  Yep. He was cute.

  “Hard to believe, but yep I get paid to do it. I work for a company called Harrington,” he said, his voice getting kind of breathy. “They’re pretty famous around here. You heard of them?”

  “Nope,” I said. “Never heard of them. Or of house sitting.” I smiled at him. “But, remember, I’m not from around here.”

  “What’s your name?” he ask
ed and scooted closer making him near enough to me that he didn’t have to yell anymore.

  “Nixie,” I said.

  “You’ve got pretty eyes, Nixie,” he said.

  Not an original comment about my mixed-heritage hazel eyes. But still appreciated.

  “Thank you,” I said and blushed just for the effect.

  “So, Nixie, you want to get out of here?”

  “Why would I want to do that?” I asked suddenly annoyed with him.

  “You know,” he leaned into my ear. “To get to know each other.”

  I leaned away from him. “No I don’t,” I said. I turned around and picked up my drink, taking a sip of my alcoholic pick-me-up. He had definitely become a downer. He had jumped to personal too quickly for me. I was done with him.

  “C’mon, Nixie,” he said, and put his hand on my arm.

  “No means no, Mr. House Sitter.” I tried to say it as nicely as I could but in a way that he’d know I was serious. I moved my arm away.

  “We could pick up something to eat and go back to my place. Or your place,” Mr. Eager Beaver said, not giving up easily.

  I rolled my eyes.

  I looked around the room, trying to see where I could go to get away from him. Then let my eyes drift back over at him.

  Yeah, he wasn’t as cute as I originally thought. And true, I was by myself and would have enjoyed the company. But I also knew that when a girl was out alone and didn’t have any back-up, it gave some guys the incentive to keep moving forward whether the attention was wanted or not. I studied him for a moment. He seemed like he was one of those guys.

  That meant it was time to go.

  Darn it!

  “I’m going to go,” I said and stood up.

  “Good,” he said, standing up next to me. “I’m ready to get out of here.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you,” I said.

  He grabbed my wrist. “That might be a little hard to do.” He gave me a wicked smile. “Get rid of me that is,” he said. “I think I like being close to you.”