by Wayne Zurl
“And why did you wait fourteen years to look for employment?”
“When I learned about an appropriate job opening so close to home, I thought getting back into law enforcement could be a good opportunity for me. I thought offering my experience to everyone would be a good way to repay the community.”
As long as the community paid my inflated salary.
Aunt Bea looked satisfied with my answers. I wouldn’t have been, but then I’m suspicious by nature.
I sat through more chatter, answered a few more questions and watched Ms. Connor record my answers for posterity.
At ten-to-seven, my portion of the festivities ended. I made the rounds shaking hands, got a few slaps on the back by the amateur legislators and left the Municipal building. By 7:10, I arrived back at home.
Kate waited patiently for me—she and Alex Trebek, who babbled incessantly on the TV screen. I thought I heard one of the contestants say, “What is the air speed velocity of a swallow, Alex?” But I was probably mistaken.
“Hello, sweetie.” She stood to kiss me hello.
Bitsey woke up, jumped off the love seat, barked and discovered it was only her father returned from the wars. So, she flopped down on the Berber carpet to get her tummy rubbed.
Five minutes later, Kate, looking lovely in a red blouse and snug blue jeans, handed me a large gin and tonic.
We spent a few minutes discussing my part of the Council meeting, and then as she disappeared into the pantry, I asked, “Hey, Kats, what’s for dinner? I didn’t eat much of a lunch.” I lowered my voice. “When will you feed me, woman?”
After my question, the lovely Katherine began an act for my benefit.
“Woman not know what time you get home. Anyway, who want to cook tonight? Not me.”
For a Polish-American girl from Long Island, she did a great job speaking like a Vietnamese bargirl.
“Hey, GI you take me to Cholon? Buy me dinner? You buy me dinner—with soup, GI—and maybe later I give you boom-boom.”
She smiled and fluttered the lashes over her dark brown eyes, making it impossible for me to refuse.
Kate referred to a local restaurant called The Cholon Garden. For those unfamiliar with the road map of Southeast Asia, Cholon was the Chinese section of Saigon in the old Republic of South Vietnam.
The proprietors were ethnic Chinese from Vietnam. They made the best Chinese, Vietnamese and Thai food I’d eaten since leaving New York.
Any chance of a meal at The Cholon Garden and the possibility of boom-boom later on is something no ex-soldier should miss. Especially when some very complicated business would take up much of my time in the days to come. I began thinking about all that uncompensated overtime again.
Chapter Nineteen
On Thursday morning, I spent time sending out inquiries on Cecil Lovejoy. I wanted his background information before speaking with our subjects and suspects. A primary rule of interviewing is, know the answers before you ask the questions. Knowing Cecil’s prior history with people would help me to spot lies or evasions.
Then I sat in my office, trying to conjecture how Cecil made his moves on these women.
Obviously, Lovejoy would approach the likely candidates when they were alone. This solitary female, the one who wanted an unaffordable house and might keep a secret, seemed the best way for him to start.
Slithering up on his prey, old silver-tongued Cecil would test the value of his Southern charm. I could almost hear him making his pitch.
“I know how much y’all want ta have one o’ my houses, and I’m just as sorry as I can be ta learn that y’all couldn’t qualify for a mortgage or a buildin’ loan.”
The woman might think Cecil only wanted to be kind. Then he’d continue, and she’d soon know better.
“But ya see, there is a way for you, and that lucky husband o’ yours, ta get that lovely home, and that’s what I’d like us ta talk about.”
I envisioned smiles and nods from the enthused mouse as the wily snake circled.
“There are special cases, ya know,” he’d say, “where I might see my way clear ta intercede on a client’s behalf and co-sign a mortgage with the bank…for someone who needed that very special favor, so ta speak.”
Cecil’s mark might see a ray of hope. Her dream home might still be obtainable.
“However, if I were ta go outta my way and put so much o’ my hard-earned, workin’ capital at risk, I’d surely like ta get an equally special favor in return. You unnerstand?”
She probably didn’t. Cecil would smile like a monitor lizard and go deeper into his act.
“It’s really very simple and would cost ya absolutely nothin’.”
He’d pause and offer another fatherly smile, letting the idea of no cost sink in.
“Ya see, I’m a great admirer of lovely ladies, and I think you are a very beautiful woman. So, for me ta co-sign your loan and make it possible for y’all to own that dream house of yours, I’d like ya ta allow me ta photograph ya in some very tasteful, but very erotic poses.”
If Cecil got thrown out on his ear, he lost nothing. If she complained to someone, it was her word against Lovejoy’s, and he could make up some story about her grossly misunderstanding his intentions.
If she looked interested, he’d promise her husband would never learn of their little secret. If the woman wanted the house more than her modesty, Cecil scored. We know of at least four women who we thought couldn’t live without the house of her dreams.
Anyway, all that sounded plausible to me. And we’d meet those four women when our road work began the next day.
* * * *
Earlier that morning I dropped the lists from Glenda Mae on Bettye’s desk. “Tomorrow morning you and I can start playing detective,” I said.
Bettye looked surprised. “I’m a detective now?”
“A temporary detective.”
“You surely are full of surprises, Sam Jenkins. Lord have mercy, my Donnie will be im-pressed.” She added a bit more country to her accent.
“I made an outline of the questions we can ask these women. Here’s a copy. If you think of anything else you want to know, write it down.”
She put on her glasses and gave a quick look.
“The last three names on the list are women who were not photographed,” I said, “but had their mortgage applications rejected. When you and I finish with the ladies in the pictures, you can interview the others. See if Cecil propositioned them, too.”
“Okey, dokey.”
“Run everyone through the computer. Look for husbands, too. See if you can get a complete pedigree on everyone.”
She nodded.
“Call our three guys and give them the names that go with the faces. No need for them to keep looking until we know more.”
Another nod.
“Who works the desk when you’re off?”
“Joey Gillespie.”
“Okay, see if you can juggle the schedule and arrange for Joey to work inside—next two days at least.” She nodded again, but hadn’t made any notes. “Got all that?”
“Sure do.”
“Wonder Woman, huh?”
“I try my best.”
By the end of the day, Bettye had finished making files on each of our photogenic women. She learned two were regularly employed, and two were not. A few more questions of Glenda Mae and some cross-referencing on the computer told her a lot about the husbands, too. Three of the men were still around, and one had since hit the dusty trail.
On Friday morning, we’d continue meeting the murder suspects. I wondered what the TBI investigators were up to. We hadn’t seen them around Prospect.
Chapter Twenty
The next morning at eight, Officer Joey Gillespie opened the office and began his stint as the pinch-hitting desk officer.
Young Joey used mousse or Brylcreem or something shiny in his curly red hair. In New York, I would have said that freckle-faced kid looked like the latest in a family of Irish cops. But
Tennessee didn’t seem to have many of those police dynasties, so familiar in the land of the Big Apple.
I know from experience that it’s more efficient for detectives to work a nine-to-five day tour. So Bettye took an extra hour getting her plainclothes outfit together.
I stood in the doorway to my office, leaning on the jamb at ten minutes to nine when Bettye walked in through the back door.
Officer Lambert wore a nicely tailored pair of black slacks, a snug teal blue knitted top and a lightweight, unbleached linen jacket. She still wore her hair in a ponytail, but fixed the sides in an upswept style, something I like, but can’t put a name to. She wore a little more makeup than usual, but still not much.
Even with the sensible shoes, I thought she looked terrific.
She smiled as she walked by. “Mornin’, Sam.”
“Howdy, miss. Which one are you, Cagney or Lacey?”
No response.
“Mornin’, Joey. Everythin’ goin’ okay?” she asked.
Joey nodded to Bettye, pressed the transmit bar on the desk microphone and told one of the radio cars to handle a first aid case at a trailer park.
“Boss, I hope it’s okay with you,” she said, “but I couldn’t wear my big issue gun with these clothes. I’ve got this one.”
She pushed her jacket back to show me a small Smith & Wesson .38 in a hip holster rather than her Glock .40 caliber automatic.
“Sure it is. You can leave all the gun fighting to me. That’s why I get the big bucks.”
“A gun fight in Prospect?” She sounded surprised. “We’ve never had one of those.”
“We haven’t had murders before, either.”
* * * *
We scheduled our first stop with one of the working girls. At forty-six, Eva Pressley ranked as the oldest woman we’d interview.
Eva worked in the showroom at Prospect Plumbing and Lighting Supply, one of the largest stores in the city.
We entered the showroom looking like a happy couple wanting to remodel our suburban home. A young woman approached us.
“Hi, can I he’p y’all today?” she asked.
“Hello,” I said, “we’ve already spoken to Eva on the phone. We’d like to see her.”
“Sure, she’s rot over here. I’ll git her fer yew.” The last word sounded like ye’oo.
I steered my partner to a small room where they displayed hanging light fixtures. That out-of-the-way place would afford us a little privacy when we met Mrs. Pressley.
In less than two minutes, a shapely and attractive woman greeted us.
“Hi, I’m Eva. You folks doin’ aw right today?”
Eva oozed a pleasant and bubbly personality.
Without showing my badge, I said, “Mrs. Pressley, my name is Sam Jenkins, and this is Bettye Lambert. We’re from the Prospect Police Department. We’d like to speak with you about Cecil Lovejoy.”
Her expression changed from a bright smile to a dark frown.
“We’d be happy to show you our identification if you would prefer to go somewhere more private,” I said.
“Yes, I guess that would be best. We have a little conference room back here.” She pointed to the rear of the showroom. “I’ll get a few catalogs if you don’t mind, and we’ll look like y’all are shoppin’ with us.”
Eva seemed deeply troubled. Her suntanned face blanched a little.
“Sure,” I said, “that will be fine.”
She stopped to pick up a large loose-leaf binder, and we followed Eva Pressley to an eight-by-ten room with a long table and several chairs.
Our plan called for Bettye to start the questioning, and if any of our subjects seemed reluctant to speak in front of a male-chauvinist-pig like me, I’d excuse myself and leave. Eva Pressley didn’t object to my presence.
“Yes, I know Mr. Lovejoy,” she first said. “My husband and I spoke to him about buying land and having a house built in Yorkshire Dales. That was some time ago. I’m afraid I haven’t seen him since that first meetin’. After that we dealt with his lawyer and buildin’ contractors.”
Bettye took the G-rated headshot from our case folder and posed a diplomatic question.
“Perhaps, Mrs. Pressley, this picture will refresh your memory? There are also other photos of you that Cecil Lovejoy had on his computer. Think back carefully. There were other times when you had occasion to see him, weren’t there?”
Her eyes popped open like frightened clams. “Oh, Lord have mercy, yes.” She shook her head slowly. “I do believe a decision I made back then was not a very good one, was it?”
We never showed her the more explicit photo. It wasn’t necessary. I felt sorry for Eva Pressley, as I’m sure Bettye did.
“Maybe not, but you can always start over again,” Bettye said.
“Yes, I’m sure you’re right,” she said. “I posed for those pictures. I suppose you want to know the reason. He said it would be so simple. All I had to do was pose for him, and he would make gettin’ our house easy. He’d just co-sign our mortgage. It didn’t seem so bad at the time. I guess I was greedy and wanted that house more than anythin’.”
“Did Lovejoy make any other demands before he co-signed your loan?” Bettye asked.
“No, he never forced me to have sex with him if that’s what ya mean. He just took pictures of me—twice.”
Perhaps she was too old, and Cecil felt a great spark of pedophilia that week.
I took a turn and asked, “Did your husband ever find out what Cecil asked you to do?”
“Good Lord, no. My husband doesn’t know—at least I don’t think so. No, I’m certain he doesn’t. If Roy found out, I’d hear about it. He can be just a bit jealous.”
Eva told us, after twice in front of Cecil’s camera, she seemed to be off the hook.
We learned Roy Pressley, an automobile salesman in Knoxville, who worked mostly on commission, didn’t have enough guaranteed income to qualify for the mortgage necessary to build the Lovejoy ‘dream house’ Eva wanted so badly. But because of several good years in the auto industry and her steady salary, they found no problem keeping up their payments once they took possession of the house.
Bettye asked another question. “You understand, Eva, that we’re investigating Cecil’s murder. I have to be honest and tell you that what happened makes you and your husband, oh, what do they call it nowadays?” She looked over at me.
“Persons of interest,” I said.
“If you were a suspect,” Bettye said, “we’d take you to the police department and ask for a written statement. We’re not there yet. We don’t intend to make what happened public information unless we absolutely have to.”
Eva nodded and looked a little relieved.
“But if more investigation leads us back to you, I’m sure you understand where this could go.”
Eva nodded again, that time looking a little less comfortable.
“Now, is there anything you want to say that we should hear?”
Eva looked down at the desk, ran a hand through her honey-colored hair, looked up and forced a smile. An overhead fixture enhanced blonde highlights streaked among the dark honey.
“You know,” she said, “at first, after I thought about what I’d done, I was mortified. I spent months agonizin’ over what I did. It all seemed too easy. I was waitin’ for some ax to fall. I hated every minute of every day. But then, as time went by, and nothin’ happened, it sort of became a dead issue. I never heard from the man again. Roy never found out—I’m sure of that.
“Then I started to think what I did wasn’t so bad after all. I guess I was ashamed of myself, posing nude for that awful man an’ all, but when I saw the pictures he took… I wasn’t ashamed of them.”
Her statement sounded a little defiant. I certainly took no offense, and it seemed neither did Bettye. Eva Pressley looked satisfied that we voiced no moral judgment.
“I can assure you,” she said, “that I had nothin’ to do with killin’ Cecil Lovejoy. My husband wouldn’t be h
appy to learn about what I did, but our marriage is good enough for us to stand up to somethin’ like that. Roy may mouth off at times about what he’d do to this one or that one, for whatever reason, but really, he’s a gentle man. He would never hurt anyone or anything. Honest.”
If Eva worked through the mental problems her actions brought upon her, then good for her. I hoped for her sake, ol’ Roy remained ignorant of those facts.
Before leaving, I asked the inevitable question, “Can you tell us where you were between 4:30 and 5:30 on the Saturday of the car show?”
We heard that Eva and her sister-in-law Wanda spent the day shopping in Knoxville. She kept plenty of credit card receipts to prove the wheres and whens. At about five o’clock, the sisters ate dinner at Charlie Pepper’s near West Town Mall. She saved the receipt from Charlie, too. I thought the women made a good choice of restaurants.
Roy Pressley presented a bit of an alibi problem. Roy and his brother, David, a recently retired Marine Corps NCO, set up at the British car show exhibiting Roy’s bright red, 1961 TR-3A.
Neither of the Pressley brothers attended the club dinner or the awards ceremony. Supposedly, the men returned to the Pressley home, garaged and covered the Triumph, grilled a couple of burgers and drank a few beers. Then they waited for Eva and Wanda to return.
It seemed doubtful anyone else could verify their story.
I thought about the flimsy alibi and how Marines were trained to use their K-Bar fighting knives.
* * * *
The second of our working girls, Teena Rogers, had the week off from work. With her husband, Gary, she’d be at their home in the Yorkshire Dales subdivision.
We drove through the upscale neighborhood on streets called Pickering, Lastingham, Rawcliffe and Appleton. Cecil must have spread out a British Ordnance Survey roadmap of Northeast Yorkshire when he named the roads in his subdivision.
We turned right onto Rosedale Lane and found number 349, a large brick, two-story house with a three-car garage set at a right angle to the main structure.
The grounds looked professionally landscaped; rows of tall Leyland Cypress trees created a privacy barrier, separating the adjoining properties. I parked in front of the garage and switched off the ignition.
“Sam, look at that sign,” Bettye said.
Fastened to the brickwork between the overhead doors hung a professionally made sign advising us to, ‘Honk your horn. We’re probably in the pool.’
