A New Prospect

by Wayne Zurl

  “Do what?” he asked.

  I sighed.

  “Stanley, help me out here. Explain schlep.”

  “Don’t look at me, boss. I’m from the land of fruits and nuts. We don’t know from schlep in California.” He winked at me. I conceded. I speak an odd tongue.

  “Junior, I can understand you don’t speak Yiddish, but figure it out, son. Now, the rest of you, what do you know about Cecil Lovejoy? What’s in his background that can help us out? Anything may be important.”

  Vern started off. “Few years ago, Cecil got hisse’f sued by half-a-dozen subcontractors who worked on some o’ his houses. Seems Cecil agreed to a cost fer specified work, then when the workers finished, he paid half o’ the agreed-on price. Said that’s all the job was worth ta him.”

  “That was nice of him.”

  “Bunch o’ the contractors made complaints ta us,” Vern said. “We told ‘em all that was a civil matter an’ needed ta be taken ta court with lawyers and such.”

  “I remember when that happened,” Bettye said. “My husband told me about it. You might want to talk to another contractor he knows…a man named Horace Colwell. Horace was an electrician back then, but he’s since taken up as a general contractor. He was one of the most vocal complainants.”

  “I know Horace Colwell,” I said. “He’s done work for me. I wonder if Donnie thinks Colwell could hold a grudge this long.”

  “He doesn’t know him too well. Just sees him on jobs now and again,” she said. “But I’ll sure ask.”

  “Good,” I said to Bettye. “Look up a number for Colwell, and if you can, track him down. I’d like to get together with him sometime in the morning. A jobsite is fine with me. Early is best.”

  “Will do, boss,” she said.

  Junior, who finally figured out what one had to do when one schleps, brought our photocopies up front and collated them into four piles.

  Stanley looked enthused.

  Bettye shook her head, probably still worrying I’d get into serious trouble.

  Vern continued to tell me that Walking Horse Realty, just across the town square, exclusively marketed Cecil’s property. I was happy to hear that. I knew the owner.

  Stanley drained his coffee cup, tossed it into a waste paper basket from ten feet and cleared his throat, much louder than necessary. His forehead wrinkled, and he seemed concerned.

  “You have something you’d like to share with us, Officer Rose? Something for which your LAPD training gave you an insight?” I asked.

  “Man, I hate to throw a monkey wrench at you, but you need to know about another person who might be one of Lovejoy’s, uh…associates.”

  “Good God, man, out with it. This sounds serious.” I let James Mason speak for me.

  Junior giggled again. He’d be easy to get a laugh from.

  “I don’t know how serious it is, but it’s more interesting now than when it happened.”

  “Stanley, if you don’t tell me what you know, I’ll wet my pants. Come on, you’ve got us all hanging here in suspense.”

  He shrugged. “Well, when I’m on the road and I’ve got nothing else to do, I try to write a few commercial vehicle violations. You know what I mean?”

  “Sure, equipment violations on trucks.”

  “Right. So one day I came in here and handed Buck a whole package of tickets I wrote on one of the Lovejoy Construction Company trucks: bald tires, missing license plate, too much diesel smoke, you know. Buck hands the tickets back to me and says, ‘Void them out.’ I say, ‘Why?’ And he says, ‘Lovejoy is a friend of mine and an important man in Prospect, a man who provides a lot of local jobs.’”

  “Buck and Cecil were…” I almost said, asshole buddies, but in deference to Bettye, cleaned up my potty mouth. “…friends?”

  “Uh-huh. Then he orders me not to bother any Lovejoy vehicles with my equipment bullshit any more. Interesting, huh?”

  “Yes, it is,” I said. “You know what the connection was? Any of you know? Just friendship, or…what?”

  Junior shrugged.

  Stan looked at me and raised his eyebrows in lieu of saying, “Three guesses and the first two don’t count.”

  Bettye said, “Two men with big political connections.”

  Vern moved the toothpick he chewed around in his mouth, sniffed and voiced an opinion the others didn’t. “I never did think ol’ Buck was above puttin’ his hand in some other man’s pocket. Them ‘quipment violations on a truck kin git perty expensive, ‘specially when you rack up a half-dozen or so on one ve-hickle. Might be worth a businessman’s while ta grease the skids ahead o’ time, so ta speak.”

  “Okay,” I said, “If Buck sticks his nose into our business over this, hand him right off to me. Don’t help him, and don’t argue with him. It’s not your job.”

  We all looked at each other. My team all nodded. I wondered when the investigation would lead me to meet Buck Webbster again—in a different, less social setting than the Park Grill.

  Chapter Seventeen

  In 1784, Revolutionary War veteran Robert McTeer crossed the Appalachian Mountains to establish a home on the eight-hundred acres of wilderness he received in his grant from the new American Republic.

  McTeer built a fort on the western side of the Smoky Mountains. Soon, more pioneers came from Virginia, North Carolina and Pennsylvania to collect their land grants as well. Those who settled near McTeer in current day Blount County founded the community of Prospect.

  More than two-hundred years after McTeer cleared the land for his frontier station, I found myself facing my own challenges in and around Prospect.

  I learned that Horace Colwell owned a new business with his brother-in-law, Bobby Gunn, building spec-houses on lots they purchased as investments. Currently working just inside adjoining Sevier County, in an area called Boyd’s Creek, Horace and his crew started work early. I did, too.

  At 7:30 Wednesday morning, I left the house and worked my way northeast toward Boyd’s Creek where around the time Robert McTeer occupied Prospect, the folks there spent much of their time slugging it out with the Cherokee for control of their hunting grounds. Horace Colwell and his carpenters didn’t have it as tough on the day we met.

  As I told Bettye, I knew Horace since he wired our new home fourteen years earlier. In the intervening years, I hired him to do several other jobs for us. I trusted him, and we got along well.

  Horace looked like an honest, hard-working man who I thought would prefer to kick Lovejoy’s ass in court than to stab him while Cecil lay drunk in a beach chair. Horace always acted like a standup guy.

  I pulled up to a ranch-style home under construction on Meadow View Road. A red Dodge Durango sat by the curb. Two men stood next to it, looking over a set of house plans. I walked over.

  “What do you say, Hoss?” I said.

  The big man turned when he heard my voice. He saw me and broke out a big smile.

  “Sam Jenkins, you rogue. Whatcha doin’, boy?”

  Horace looked a little like country singer Buck Owens, with thinning sandy hair, a thick beard, ruddy complexion and a deep voice that would make Sam Elliot jealous.

  “Came to see you, Hoss,” I said. “I need to get a little information about a guy who gave you a hard time once. What can you tell me about Cecil Lovejoy? You remember him?”

  “Cecil Lovejoy, that son-of-a-bitch. I read about him gettin’ killed over the weekend. Glad to hear it, too. Makes me think there is some kind o’ justice in this world after all.”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “Hey, I saw ya on the news,” he said. “Since when’d you get to be a po-leece chief?”

  I came to see Horace and get answers, not give them. I did the old cop thing and ignored his question.

  “I heard you sued Cecil for not paying his obligations. You and a few others make a class action suit against him?”

  Horace nodded. The guy I thought might be his brother-in-law stood there quietly.

  “Tel
l me about that, and who was in it with you,” I said.

  “Shoot, I’ll give ya all the names and addresses. Just let me get home and look in my paperwork. It’s just a bunch of local contractors and me who was stupid enough to take Cecil at his word and do the work with no upfront money. We all went inta the deal with nuthin’ more than a handshake.”

  “And what happened?”

  “Come time to collect and Cecil tells us mostly the same thing. He’ll pay about half of what we agreed on. Lots of hard feelin’s over that, Sam. No one around here would work for him after the word got out, and rightly so. He had to hire himself a fulltime crew to build his houses. Paid lower wages and got less experience. The quality of his homes went way down. He still charged big money though. I hear plenty of his customers ended up unhappy, too.”

  “The number of Lovejoy fans gets bigger every day,” I said. “Sounds like a guy everyone could hate.”

  “You got that right. But after bein’ burned once, I learned. Then I got a few jobs to fix what Cecil’s crew messed up. I guess things evened out. But that was what, four-and-a-half, five years ago? And, Mr. Sam Po-leece Chief Jenkins, I got me an alibi for all day Saturday. I was over to Cherokee winnin’ a few dollars at them blackjack machines in the casino. Used my credit card to play, too.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. I didn’t figure you for stabbing a man. Probably rather wring Cecil’s scrawny neck, wouldn’t you?”

  “Probably rather blow his gat dag head off with a shotgun.”

  That would work.

  “You think anyone who had the same problem as you had a more recent run-in with Cecil? Maybe the same thing all over again? Maybe some other dealings on a professional level that would make someone mad enough to kill the old boy?”

  Horace shrugged and looked at his partner who did the same.

  “How about a totally new person? You hear anything while you’re on your jobs?”

  “Don’t know of anythin’ new,” he said. “Like I told ya, most of the independent contractors in the county keep clear of Cecil. But ya might look closer to home, Sam. They’s some that say his wife, Miss Pearly, might like to kill him herse’f. Suppose the ol’ boy’s worth a perty penny in the grave.”

  “Pearl and Cecil didn’t live in marital bliss?”

  “Shoot, they’s lotsa talk ‘bout Cecil runnin’ around the county and inta Knoxville like an ol’ tomcat in heat. Might check on that. Could be some gal’s husband’s not too pleased with Cecil tryin’ to put the moves on his wife. I cain’t prove anythin’ and don’t even have a good ideal who it might be, but you might want to nose around a little in that direction.”

  “Okay, I’ll do that. Hey, it was good to see you again. Thanks for the ideas, and please call my office and give the officer there the names of the people involved in that lawsuit. Okay? How about tomorrow morning? Can do?”

  Horace smiled and nodded.

  “Good man, Horace. Thanks again. I’ll see ya.”

  Pleased that Colwell could account for his actions on Saturday, I’d still have Bettye check with Harrah’s and verify his story.

  The list of Cecil’s fan club grew larger. I hoped someone jumped into my handcuffs and confessed before I had to track down all my suspects to verify their stories.

  When you have a homicide that goes so far into a suspect pool, I’ve always found that waiting for the guilty person to feel a spark of conscience and confess may seem more possible because of the number of people involved, but it’s mostly improbable.

  It only happened to me once. Lucky enough to be sitting in the squad when a remorseful killer came in to unburden his soul, I never told my boss how I solved a dead case. All I said was, “Lieutenant, it was pure scientific criminal investigation.” You’ve got to create a mystique when you can.

  * * * *

  The owner of Walking Horse Realty, Glenda Mae Waddell, lived across the road from us in Walland. One-hundred-percent Old South, Mae originated in “Vuh-gin-yuh.” She came from one-hundred-percent old money, too.

  I knew Mae was over fifty, but how far I couldn’t tell and never asked. Currently between husbands, she is, according to my wife, drop dead gorgeous.

  Mae’s late father grew tobacco, owned sawmills and speculated in land all over the countryside between Richmond and Roanoke. When he died, he left his fortune to his only child. Mae was loaded.

  She didn’t have to work, but she chose to run a real estate brokerage in Prospect. Later that morning, I went to visit Mae and see what she knew about Cecil Lovejoy.

  The sky showed a ceiling of gray, high-altitude clouds. The morning air felt almost cool, but the weatherman called for another day in the mid-eighties. So-called ‘pop up’ showers periodically drenched small areas of the county and then quickly disappeared. Those areas not getting the rain were left with humidity that hung in the air like wet laundry.

  During my stroll across the town square, the air felt sticky, motionless and unpleasant. Looking around, I saw nothing of great consequence happening in the center of Prospect at 9:30.

  I opened the storefront office door. A bell attached to the frame jingled. The air conditioner hit me with a blast of cold air and made me blink.

  “Jesus,” I said, “it feels like I just stepped into Alaska.”

  “Sammy. Good mornin’. How nice to see ya. You doin’ okay? Like your new job? I always said you would make a fine police chief around here. Why I’ve told your wife…”

  I didn’t like too many people calling me Sammy, but for Mae, I made an exception.

  “Hello, Maezy.” I interrupted her, stopping a soliloquy that could go on for a long time.

  “Land sakes, it’s good to see you, Sam.” She flashed a million-dollar smile.

  She sat alone in her office. Three other desks were empty. Glenda Mae wore her blonde hair up in a French twist. Bangs covered half her forehead. Her makeup looked professionally done.

  “Mae, can I talk to you about something that no one else can ever hear? Just you and me? No one else?”

  “Why, honey, that sounds excitin’,” she said with another irresistible smile.

  I resisted.

  “Important, maybe. Not all that exciting.”

  I explained the Lovejoy investigation, the FBI’s part in it and how I wanted to show her some photos, perhaps finding a common thread with the subjects and Cecil Lovejoy.

  “Why, Sammy, how can y’all say a murder isn’t excitin’? My land.”

  Mae wore a sleeveless yellow blouse with the top three buttons open and stonewashed designer jeans that said chic like Rodeo Drive.

  “Take a look at these.” I handed her the four headshots of the adult women I wanted identified, holding back the older shots of the teenager. “Probably not the best pictures of our ladies, but they’ll have to do. I think Cecil Lovejoy did the photography. His house is full of similar French furniture. And it doesn’t look like these women were too thrilled to be involved with him. The other pictures I have show that Cecil photographed them, uh, en flagrante.”

  “On what?” Mae asked, looking at the headshots.

  I elaborated. “En flagrante, au naturel, in the buff…nekkid.”

  “Well, my land, they surely don’t look very happy, do they? Nekkid, you say? I always thought Cecil was a no-account swine.”

  “Swine? Okay. Any chance you know these ladies?”

  “Honey, I know them all. Every single one. I sold them—well, them and their husbands, lots in Cecil’s new subdivision, Yorkshire Dales, the one where his own house is.”

  See how easy life can be? You ask the right person the right question and you feel like an all-star.

  “I suppose, my dear, your expensive computer can print out all their names and addresses?”

  “You may assume that, suh.”

  “Can the wonders of cyberspace look into the minds of these women or their husbands and tell me who killed the old boy?”

  “Names and addresses, sugar, yes. Solvin’ mu
rders, no. I bought a computer, not a crystal ball. You really think one of these girls may be involved in the killin’?”

  “Beats me, Maezy. I don’t know much of anything yet. I’ve got a small army of suspects, but no great ideas. I’m looking for help anywhere I can get it.”

  She picked up the envelope from her desk where I dropped it after showing her the headshots. I hadn’t intended to give her the nude photos, but curiosity must have overwhelmed her. She looked at the pictures.

  “Well, my land, they surely are nekkid, aren’t they? I do suppose men would find these women attractive, don’t you, Sammy? My-my, this one blonde is somethin’, isn’t she?”

  I shrugged.

  Mae slipped all the photos back into the envelope and tossed it in my direction. She opened the bottom drawer of her desk and set her foot on it. The brown, alligator-hide cowgirl boot she rested on the open drawer didn’t look like something she wore to muck out the stables.

  She fluttered the neck of her blouse back and forth. “Is it warm in here, or is it just me?” she asked, fanning her face with her free hand.

  “It’s freezing in here. Have you considered hormone replacement?”

  She batted the dark lashes over her big blue eyes several times. Her red lips opened for a few seconds before she spoke. “I’ve got more hormones than I know what to do with, thank ya very much. You’re getting’ awful personal with me, Sammy. Was that your intention?”

  “Of course not, Ms. Waddell. I’m all business.”

  “You can be an evil man when you want, Sam Jenkins.”

  Again, she tossed me a big smile. I behaved myself—always the professional.

  Mae said Cecil’s lots were sold with a stipulation that within twelve months of closing, the buyers must begin construction of a home built by Lovejoy’s company.

  In Mae’s opinion, Cecil specialized in very large and highly overpriced homes.

  “However, sugar,” she said, “Yorkshire Dales is the prestige subdivision for miles around.”

  I guess that made a difference to some people.

  “You think Cecil propositioned all the good-looking women who bought land from him?” I asked. “Why would these women willingly, or even under pressure, take their clothes off for the old coot? He wasn’t exactly Cary Grant, was he?”

  “Cary Grant? My Lord, no. He was no Sam Jenkins either, sugar.”