Undercurrents
A Faye Longchamp Mystery
Mary Anna Evans
Poisoned Pen Press
Copyright
Copyright © 2018 by Mary Anna Evans
First Edition 2018
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017951351
ISBN: 9781464209307 Hardcover
ISBN: 9781464209321 Trade Paperback
ISBN: 9781464209338 Ebook
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
Poisoned Pen Press
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Scottsdale, AZ 85251
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Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
For the children of Memphis and
for children everywhere
Acknowledgments
I’d like to thank all the people who helped make Undercurrents happen. Tony Ain, Michael Garmon, Rachel Broughten, Amanda Evans, and Robert Connolly read it in manuscript and their comments were incredibly helpful.
The highlight of writing this book was, without question, my research trip. I have enjoyed time in Memphis over the years, especially when I was an Ole Miss student. When I lived in western Kentucky, I was near enough to make impromptu weekend visits, and I did. I enjoyed a memorable week there more recently with my friends Robert and Emma Connolly, teaching creative writing to high school students in the daytime and exploring the revitalized downtown with them at night. In recent years, though, there have long gaps between my visits to the lovely city sitting on its Mississippi River bluffs. As I prepared to write Undercurrents, I knew I needed to invest some time if I hoped to give Memphis its due.
Because enjoying blues and jazz screams out for good company, I invited two of my oldest friends, Carla Smith Wynja and Debi Porter Saraswati Lewis, to meet me there. Trust me when I say that we threw ourselves into our task. We ate barbecue at The Rendezvous, where Debi learned that there are, in fact, vegetarian options on that most carnivorous of menus. We dined at The Peabody, where we met Duckmaster Jimmy Ogle, who is also Shelby County’s official historian, among many other things that you can read about at www.jimmyogle.com. Duckmaster Ogle gave us a private tour of the Peabody, regaling us with tales of its storied history. (Did you know that Elvis received his first major record label signing bonus at The Peabody? I’ve seen the receipt and it’s on Peabody stationery. I’ve also seen the Peabody ducks’ condominium.) We toured The C.H. Nash Museum at Chucalissa and learned from its gracious staff. We explored the area around the museum and the adjacent T.O. Fuller State Park, getting a feel for the real neighborhoods that are situated near where I imagine Kali’s to be. As would be expected of three former band kids, we grooved to some fabulous blues and jazz on Beale Street. And we went to the river, where we stood at the memorial to Tom Lee and thought of the heroism he displayed in the face of an immense volume of swirling water, armed only with a small boat and, probably, a fervent wish that he knew how to swim.
As always, I am grateful for the people who help me get my work ready to go out into the world, the people who send it out into the world, and the people who help readers find it. Many thanks go to my agent, Anne Hawkins, and to the wonderful people at Poisoned Pen Press who do such a good job for us, their writers. Because I can trust that my editor, Barbara Peters, and the rest of the hardworking Poisoned Pen Press staff will ensure that my work is at its best when it reaches the public, I am free to focus on creating new adventures for Faye. I’m also grateful to the University of Oklahoma for providing the opportunity for me to teach a new generation of authors while continuing to write books of my own.
And, of course, I am always (always!) grateful for you, my readers.
Chapter One
He always loved the Madonna-like glow around a mother tending to her child. More than once, this glow had been the thing that called a woman to his attention.
He appreciated the way this mother’s deep brown skin shone as she bent down close to a little face that was just as beautiful as hers. Her auburn braids cascaded around her face as she leaned in to hear her child’s secrets. White teeth gleamed behind full lips that would have glistened even without the frosty pink gloss she wore. Earrings dangled like a hypnotist’s shiny watch. Rings adorned every one of her fragile fingers.
He had been watching this mother with this child for a long time, longer than he’d ever stalked a woman. His attention had strayed, because certain needs must be met, but he always came back to her.
For her, he had broken every one of his rules. They lived mere blocks apart. He knew her name. She knew his. More to the point, the people who would be her survivors knew his name and they knew where he lived. He should have run from her as fast as his feet would take him, but he was transfixed by the graceful tilt of her head as she listened to everything her little girl had to say.
As the two of them neared the crosswalk, she held her hand out in the mother’s universal signal of caution. The hand said, “You’re too young to cross the street alone.” Or perhaps it said, “You’re old enough to cross the street alone now, but hold mine, please. I feel safer when you do.” Something about the way the child took her mother’s hand made him think that the balance was already shifting, years too soon. Perhaps the mother was the one who needed someone steady to look after her.
There was no
