by Wayne Zurl
“You flatter me, madam.” I offered her a suave bow. I’d been relying on James Mason a lot lately.
“Sammy, I just love when you talk like that. Who was that? Errol Flynn?”
“Nobody special, Mae. Any idea why these girls posed for Cecil. I mean, he never asked you, did he?”
“No. And if he did, I’d o’ killed that old bastard myself, Sammy. O’ course, business is business, so I sold his land, but I never could abide that man. People where I come from might say he needed killin’. Whoops, that’s not the thing to say to a policeman, is it?”
“Probably not. Let’s get back to why.”
“Ya know, let me check somethin’ right quick.” She took a few folders from her desk drawer.
Mae thumbed through several pages, looked in a second folder and closed it.
“This may be interestin’ to you, darlin’. You know when a buyer goes to a bank for a loan or mortgage, the broker gets a copy of the report from the mortgage committee?”
“I didn’t know that, but it makes sense.”
“Well, seems like in each and every case, the buyers were found unqualified for the total amount o’ the buildin’ loan. Looks like all their savin’s went for the land, and they didn’t have the minimum ten-percent toward the cost of the house. Either that or their salaries weren’t high enough for the bank to think they’d be able to satisfy the mortgage after the home was finished and occupied.”
“Hmmm.”
“A bank won’t give a long-term loan or mortgage with only vacant land as collateral.” She paused and looked so proud of herself.
Mae had piqued my interest.
“Okay, I’m listening. Tell me more,” I said with enthusiasm.
“Well, when I got those bank notices, I thought I might lose the sales. So, I kept an eye on what happened. I didn’t want them to complete the purchase later on, directly from Cecil, you understand, and me get skunked out o’ my commission. I could see that cheatin’ old booger, Cecil Lovejoy, trying to pull a fast one like that.”
“Pretty smart, aren’t you?”
“Thank ya, suh. Well, anyway, not too long after those people were denied a mortgage, I received notice sayin’ they were getting’ all the money they needed. Know why?”
“Not a clue.”
“Well, sugar, Cecil himself co-signed all those loan applications. Now! How about that for coincidence?”
“You’re sure all four couples faced similar circumstances?”
“Got all the paperwork right here.” She tapped the folders on her desk.
“So Cecil could have approached the women and said he’d co-sign their mortgages only if they posed nude or whatever.”
“Exactly. Each couple got their homes, and Lovejoy Land Developments, Incorporated was listed as guarantor and held the first right of foreclosure if the buyers defaulted. Now why do you suppose he’d do that for strangers?”
“That’s not much different than a loan shark picking up ‘laid-off’ debts from a bookie.”
“If you say so, darlin’.”
“There’s nothing illegal about Cecil co-signing a loan for someone.”
“’Course not, sugar. Actually, it’s to his advantage if he didn’t mind takin’ a little risk. He gets to sell the vacant land, and then he makes all kinds o’ money buildin’ the clients a home.”
“Sure,” I said. “For a little risk, he makes big profits.”
“Big profits, Sammy.”
“And there is no reason the husbands of the four women would think anything wasn’t kosher when Cecil made his offer to the wives.”
“I don’t know anything about kosher, Sammy, but why would they? Cecil just looked like he was coverin’ all his bases.”
So, each of those four women represented couples who didn’t qualify for bank money in the amounts they needed. Then behold, out of the blue, Cecil offered to co-sign their mortgages, guaranteeing payments to the bank. And all this seemed to be done for the low, low price of only a few mornings of shoddy pleasure for the old no-account himself.
What some people will do to live in a prestigious neighborhood.
Once again, the plot thickened.
“Are there other people who were rejected for the same reasons?” I asked.
“There are.”
“See if you can find any good-looking women among them. But women who didn’t get their loans co-signed.”
“I’ll look for ya.”
“Great. When you’re finished printing all this, give me a call, and I’ll pick it up.”
“Well, lucky me. I get a visit twice in one day.”
To emphasize a final, but important point, I frowned to look deadly serious. “One last thing, Maezy.”
She tilted her head.
“Please don’t mention those photos to anyone. I don’t want to ruin the lives of a few women who suffered from a lapse in good judgment.”
“Sammy, darlin’, my lips are sealed.” She made the appropriate gesture with her two fingers.
“Okay, great detective work on your part, young lady. Thanks a lot. How about I buy you a lunch for all your help?” I got up and began to leave.
“You gonna take me out alone, or are you bringin’ a chaperone?”
“Probably the latter. Wives must eat, too, you know,” I said, standing by the door.
“Oh, it was my pleasure. Now get outta here, and don’t come back until I finish this work for ya.”
She feigned a serious look. I didn’t believe a bit of it. I thought she liked me.
I yanked open the office door—probably stuck by some kind of atmospheric pressure created by the extreme differences in temperature.
Outside, the warm damp air made me think I just stepped from Skagway into a small village in Laos.
A conversation with Mae Waddell is always an ego booster. I headed for the office feeling pretty good. When I arrived there, I should have walked out.
Chapter Eighteen
I used the Municipal Building’s front entrance, walked through the marble walls of the main lobby and into Bettye’s area. Before I could say hello, she put a finger to her lips and motioned me back outside.
She stepped close enough for me to smell a hint of perfume.
“Buck Webbster and his brother Claude are waitin’ in your office,” she whispered in my ear.
“Did either one say what they wanted?”
I must have spoken too loud because she put a finger to her lips again. Women always do that.
“I’m only a woman. Why would they tell me?”
I got the idea Bettye placed Buck Webbster on a par with Heinrich Himmler, another ex-cop of dubious reputation. She didn’t seem overly fond of Claude either.
“Hey, forget them. Give me a couple more weeks and I’ll be whistling the theme to Wonder Woman when I see you.”
“I guess they taught you how to flatter a girl up in New York, didn’t they, city boy?”
She had used a little green eye shadow that morning. It went great with her hazel eyes.
“Yes, ma’am. I paid attention in that class.”
She looked pleased that I came to rescue her from the evil Webbster brothers. I felt obligated to go and slay a couple of dragons.
I walked quietly into my office. Buck and his brother sat with their backs to me. I stood in the doorway for a few seconds and surprised my visitors by loudly saying, “Gentlemen.”
Claude’s shoulders raised an inch. Buck sat still like a fat manikin wearing a luau shirt and Bermuda shorts. His black socks and police shoes weren’t exactly the correct choice for summer footgear.
Finally, both turned to look at me and then scrambled to stand up. Buck spoke first. “Hello, Sam. Good ta see ya ag’in. Want ya ta meet m’ brother, Claude. Claude, this here’s Sam Jenkins.”
As Buck spoke, I walked around my desk. Claude extended a hand, but I stepped too far away to shake it. Instead, I frowned and ignored him. He withdrew his hand and wiped it on the leg o
f his pants.
“Buck, Claude,” I said without inflection, nodded once to each of them and pointed to the chairs they’d been using. They sat.
I wanted to make them uncomfortable, so I said nothing, but instead looked from one to the other, waiting.
After a pregnant moment, Buck took the bull by the horns. “Sam, I done brought my brother here ta meet ya—Claude, he’s a county commissioner, ya know—cause we thought there’s somethin’ ya need ta unnerstand.”
I still said nothing, partially because I know silence makes guilty people uncomfortable, and so I’d have a moment to consider Claude.
He looked like a younger version of Buck, a bit overweight, but nowhere close to Buck’s girth. Claude’s hair was still mostly dark. He stood about the same height as his brother and inherited what I guessed to be the Webbster family overbite.
He wore khaki work pants and an orange polo shirt with ‘Tennessee General Supply—Since 1934’ embroidered directly into the cotton.
Just what we need…more legislators who spend most of their time in a plumbing supply house.
I decided to break the silence. “And what’s that…Buck?” My question came with a little attitude attached.
“Well, Sam, hit’s actually somethin’ we’re sayin’ on behalf of another party, a friend, so ta speak.”
“Before you waste your breath,” I said, “if it’s about the Cecil Lovejoy murder, I really don’t want to hear it.”
“Chief,” Claude said, “we’s afraid ya might say that, an’ we jest wanted y’all ta know that this ain’t nuthin’ personal.”
Not only did the Webbster brothers share a common overbite, but they had the same voice.
Claude continued. “Miss Pearl Lovejoy, we know y’all met her, jest feels more comfortable handin’ this ball over ta the TBI folks. Nuthin’ ag’inst yer abilities, o’ course.”
“You know, fellas,” I said, “ever since the mayor ordered me to give this investigation to the TBI, which I’ve done, questions keep popping into my head.”
I paused to take a breath. During the silence, they shot glances back and forth to each other, each of them blinking a mile a minute. Buck’s cheek bulged with chewing tobacco. He held a Styrofoam ‘spit-cup’ in his right hand.
“Why would anyone worry if I found the killer first?” I asked. “Does the TBI need an arrest that badly? Why would anyone care if any old cop-on-the-street stumbled over this killer and locked him up? If a relative of yours got murdered, wouldn’t you want the killer caught as quickly as possible?”
“Now, Sam,” Buck said, “we mean ya no harm here. Yer new in these parts, an’ ya gotta know, people like Pearl Lovejoy likes getting’ their own ways. We’re tellin’ ya all this fer yer own good.”
“Sure you are, Buck. Now, tell me this. Does Pearl Lovejoy lack confidence in my abilities to catch a murderer, or does she think I might get lucky? You sure Miss Pearl didn’t kill the old man herself? Sure she’s not trying to buy herself some insurance here?”
I never expected an honest answer.
“Now, Sam,” Buck said again. “I believe yer outta line there. Pearl Lovejoy comes from a fine family…good Christians.”
Claude took over. “Chief, yer a good Christian man yerse’f, ain’t ya?”
“I’m a Druid actually.”
“Do what?”
Claude must have heard a new word.
“Nothing. What’s religion got to do with this?”
“Well, hit’s kindly like when the preachers tell ya, ya got ta have faith. Ya know, Sam, we’uns ain’t privy ta God’s master plan, an’ sometimes when we don’ unnerstand somethin’ an’ we git confused—then we jest need ta have faith. You jest need ta have faith fer rot now. You’ll see. This’ll all work out fer the best. Jest let things be, an’ people will appreciate what ya done. You’ll make out in the long run. Believe us when we tell ya that.”
I found myself giving an almost silent snort. “Claude, the only thing I have faith in at the moment is myself.”
Then Buck took up his part of the double-teaming again. “Sam, jest let it be. No one will git hurt. Mebbe they’s somethin’ we’uns or the Lovejoys kin do fer ya…ta make this a mite more easy fer ya ta agree ta, that is.”
“You know, Buck,” I said, “the other day when we met I found you offensive—in the things you’ve done and for the things you say. Today you two come in here and come damn close to asking me to commit malfeasance and accept a bribe. That’s not just offensive, it’s fetid.”
The Webbster boys looked confused by my use of adjectives.
“It stinks.”
The light bulbs went on.
“Now hold on, Sam,” Buck said. “You cain’t—”
“Stop.” I held up a hand. “Yes, I can. You’ve had your say, and now it’s my turn. If you two have to report back to Pearl Lovejoy, go tell her I gave this case to the TBI—as ordered. If she asks you what I’ll do next—it’s none of her business or yours.”
Claude shook his head. Buck dribbled tobacco juice into his cup.
“This next part is your business, so listen carefully.” I stopped for effect, gave them my evil eye for a few seconds and then continued. “If you ever come to me again and cross over the line by suggesting I violate the law or commit a dereliction of duty, I will personally lock your asses up. And I won’t bother to prosecute you in a local court where you may have some influence. I plan on calling my new friends at the FBI and have them charge you with political corruption so you find yourselves in a Federal prison—a place where the good ol’ boy network can’t help you.”
Claude looked about to speak, but I gave him the hand, too. “No, we’re finished. Have a nice day, fellas.”
I stood up. They looked at each other, stood and then turned to go.
As they left, Buck passed Bettye without a word. But just as he cleared our lobby doors, he turned and said, “Yer makin’ a big mistake here, mister. Y’all better believe that.”
As soon as they were out of range, I looked at Bettye and said, “Gee, I guess that went well.”
“What do you suppose he meant by that?” she asked.
“Who knows what an angry man means…or what he may do?”
* * * *
At 5:30 that evening, I found myself sitting in the gallery of the Prospect Magistrate’s Court. I wasn’t a defendant. I was an honored guest. They hold City Council meetings in the courtroom.
I sat in one of the fold-down audience seats the gawkers of our jurisprudence system utilize daily. A dozen other citizens sat nearby, waiting for the Council meeting to kick off.
I felt impatient and uncomfortable. I hadn’t worn a jacket and tie so often in the last fourteen years.
For fifteen minutes, several men and a couple women wandered in. Some took seats in the jury box, and others stood around talking. Then Trudy Connor walked in carrying a steno pad and took a chair at the prosecutor’s table.
An omen?
At 5:40, Ronnie Shields bustled in like a comic making his appearance in the lounge of a cruise ship. He smiled and waved and pointed at several of the people in the audience and then stopped next to me and slapped my shoulder.
“Hello, Sam. Good ta see ya ag’in.” He stuck out a hand for me to shake. “This won’t take too long. The Council members jest want ta git ta meet ya.”
He acted friendly enough. Our last meeting didn’t hold that much jocularity. I remember thinking politicians and lawyers are all the same. They try to scratch your eyes out at noon, and then at five o’clock they invite you for martinis.
I grinned like the village idiot and sat down as he hustled up to the judge’s seat—behind a raised paneled dais, in front of tongue-in-groove walnut paneling, in a room where Clarence Darrow would feel right at home.
Ronnie tapped a gavel on the desktop to get everyone’s attention.
“If y’all would take ya seats,” he said. “Before we git inta reg’lar bidness, I’d like ta introduce Sam Jenkin
s, our new po-leece chief. I hope y’all don’t mind if I stray from the usual protocol.”
No one objected, even Ms. Connor. I got a round of applause, but no one shouted, “Huzzah!”
Seven people made up the Council, five men and two women; no one under fifty. Everyone sat in the jury box staring intently at me. I thought I knew how Sydney Carton felt.
“Sam,” Ronnie said, “Why don’tcha come an’ sit next ta me up here?”
He pointed to the witness stand.
Great, just what I wanted to do—testify.
I took the witness chair, smiled and nodded at the Council members.
The mayor and a few other people said things I can’t remember. Then an over-sixtyish woman stood up. She looked like Andy Taylor’s Aunt Bea.
“Mr. Jenkins,” she said, “I’ve been readin’ your resume’ here. It sounds like your former police department on Long Island was quite large. Is that so?”
“Yes, ma’am. Three thousand sworn personnel and almost five hundred civilians.”
“Well, Lord have mercy. I don’t believe even the Tennessee state po-leece is that large.”
She should have counted the legs and divided by two.
“Actually,” I said, “the Tennessee Highway Patrol has less than a thousand sworn troopers.”
She smiled, looking somewhat grateful for my wealth of information. “You say you were a detective in a general service squad,” she said. “Now jest what is a general service squad?”
I answered her while a gray-haired man with a really bad toupee’ sat to her left picking at a hangnail.
“And you were a sergeant in the organized crime section. You mean like the Mafia?”
“Yes, ma’am. They were the Mafia. We were the police.”
I got a few laughs. The old girl smiled. Then she continued. The guy with the rug kept up the attack on his cuticle.
“And then you were a detective lieutenant, a section commander. Please tell us what that means.”
I did that, too. My story seemed to fascinate her and the others. Even Mr. Hangnail paid attention.
“You retired when you were only forty-six. That’s very young. Why did you retire so young?”
Okay, I thought, the old girl is feeling the courtroom in her veins, and she wants to cross-examine me.
“I was eligible for regular service retirement then. I had achieved what I wanted in twenty years and I thought it was my time to go. Financially, I could do that.”
So there, nosey.
