by Wayne Zurl
Two black silhouettes of a well-built male and female flanked the wording. I looked at Bettye, shrugged and laid a heavy hand on the horn. We walked to the front door and waited.
The solid oak door opened, and a woman wrapped in a white silk kimono met us. It seemed obvious the kimono was all she had on.
According to the department of motor vehicles, Teena Rogers was thirty-five-years-old and five-feet-eight-inches tall. She looked tanned and in good shape.
I can’t deny most guys would categorize her as attractive, but her Botox-enhanced lips, tangerine-colored hair and striking green eyes made her too flashy for my taste. Brassy may have been a good word to describe her.
Back in New York, the guys I worked with would have taken one look at Teena and said, ‘That’s stuff.’
“Teena Rogers?” I asked.
“Yes, that’s me. Hi.” She looked us over and smiled. Teena didn’t sound like a local girl.
“I’m Sam Jenkins, and this is Bettye Lambert from Prospect Police. We’d like to speak with you about Cecil Lovejoy.”
“Oh, sure,” she said. “Come on in, and I’ll get my husband.”
Before she got too far, I made a suggestion. “Mrs. Rogers. You may want to speak with us alone about this.”
“No, come on in. I don’t mind. Hang on while I get Gary.”
Bettye and I looked at each other. I shrugged again. We stepped into a big slate foyer. I closed the front door to keep in the cool air.
A few minutes later, Teena returned with a tall, tanned and slim guy with dark wet hair. He wore a white terrycloth robe tied at the waist, but open enough to show lots of hairless chest. My guess—Gary wasn’t wearing any more than Teena beneath his robe.
We shook hands and followed them into the living room. Teena and Gary sat on a sofa. Bettye and I sat in upholstered chairs across from them. The contemporary furniture in the room looked expensive. Outside a pair of French doors, I saw the surface of their pool shimmer in the sunlight.
I hoped, for Bettye’s sake, neither one decided to cross their legs. I started off with the direct approach.
“We’d like to speak with you about Cecil Lovejoy. You bought your land from him, and he built your house.”
“Yes,” Teena said, “We heard about the murder. We were never friendly with him, but I suppose you’ve found the pictures.”
“Pictures?” I asked.
“Sure, Cecil asked me to pose nude for him. I assume you found the pictures among his things.”
I looked at Gary. “You knew about this?”
“Oh, sure, Teena told me right after he approached her.” Gary didn’t speak with a Tennessee accent either.
“You agreed with Mrs. Rogers’ decision to model for Cecil Lovejoy?” I tried to say that without inflection.
“Of course. We’re nudists. Teena has a great body. She has no reason to hide it. If seeing her nude was a big kick for Cecil, so be it. Why not give the old man a thrill?”
“Uh huh,” I said. Bettye chose to remain silent.
“Mrs. Rogers, did Lovejoy ask you to do any more than pose for the photos?”
“Oh, yeah, he wanted sex, too. I took my clothes off, and he got turned-on right away. That turned me off. I was happy to pose for him, but he acted like a real pig and wanted to start touching before we even got to know each other. That first time I had to give him a hand job just to calm him down.”
That’s the first time I wondered if honesty really was the best policy.
“You said first time. There were others?”
“Yes, photos twice. The third time just for sex.”
“Mr. Rogers, this was all okay with you?” I tried not to sound amazed while Bettye still sat quietly.
“Officers, uh…detectives, you need to know that Teena and I have what some folks would call an alternative lifestyle,” he said—like that would explain everything.
I knew exactly what he meant, but like the famous Lieutenant Columbo, I decided to play dumb. “Sir?”
“We refer to ourselves as swingers. We have an open marriage…We have sex with other people…We swap partners.”
I nodded, like that was something I heard every day. “So, when Cecil Lovejoy wanted to photograph Teena nude and then have sex with her for him to co-sign your mortgage contract, neither of you objected to his request?”
“No, we didn’t,” he said. “Teena didn’t care for him at all, but she’s balled guys before that she didn’t end up liking. It was an easy way to get this house approved. We had the money, but we also had a little problem with our credit rating. Teena used to have a spending problem—too many cards maxed out. Nothing major. That’s all taken care of now.
“Hey listen,” he continued. “I had no problem with her fucking the old guy. He asked her to dress up like a little school girl. I thought that was cool, and I got him to agree to let me watch. Cecil was an asshole, but Teena looked great. I hope you understand.”
“Yeah, sure. So, uh…there we are,” I said.
Oh, Jenkins, great line, you smooth, worldly devil.
“Mind if we ask where you two were between 4:30 and 5:30 on Saturday?”
“No problem. We met a couple from West Knoxville. We all had a light dinner and some drinks out, and then we went back to their place and screwed all night long. They were great fun.”
“Think they’d mind confirming that?” I asked.
“Course not,” they said, almost in unison.
We thanked Teena and Gary Rogers for their time and honesty. I can’t speak for Bettye, but I’m glad they didn’t invite us in for a swim. I couldn’t look at Bettye while we walked out.
Back in the car, I turned on the ignition and fired up the engine. I watched the front door close, and I broke out laughing.
“Sam Jenkins!” Bettye slapped my arm. “Why are you laughin’?”
“It takes all kinds, Mrs. Lambert—it surely does. Did you enjoy our trip into the Twilight Zone?”
“Lord have mercy! Have you ever met people like that before?” she asked as I pulled out of the driveway.
“Actually, I have, a long time ago. I was still a patrolman then. I got an invitation to a pool party by, uh…someone similar.”
“Really? You didn’t go, did you?”
“No, ma’am. That’s not my style.”
“Good,” she said. “How did you meet this person?”
“My partner and I got a barking dog call one afternoon. When we got to the house, everything was quiet. He stayed in the car to catch up on his memo book entries, and I went to the door. A good-looking woman answered. I took her name for the report, told her to call again if the dog got noisy. When I started to leave, she asked if I’d like to come to a pool party. We were on four-to-twelves, so I gave an excuse of only getting off at midnight. Not to be put off, she said the party would be going on long after that. Then I said I didn’t have a swimsuit handy. She told me if I came after midnight with a suit on, I’d be the only person there with one.”
“So you left, I hope,” Bettye said. “Did you tell your partner?”
“Yeah, I left, and of course I told my partner.”
“And?” She made the word sound like it had a dozen letters.
“Paul was a different kind of guy. He went back at midnight, invited himself in and the next day told me I missed a great party.”
“Was he married?” She sounded shocked.
“No, but his wife was.”
“Well, I never.”
“Yep, me neither. I was always a good boy—for a cop.”
So, our second possibility netted us no new suspects. I believed their story, but I’d check on their alibi personally. Bettye wouldn’t react well to a second pair of swingers so early in her investigative career.
I didn’t stray too far from Yorkshire Dales to find us a quick but second-rate lunch. We covered necessary ground that morning, but didn’t learn much. For the afternoon, we had two women to go. Maybe we’d have more success, and I’
d satisfy my claim of wrapping up the investigation quickly. Or maybe not, and we’d end up interviewing more suspects than two investigators should handle. I wondered what I’d feel like if I walked into the Sheriff’s office with my tail between my legs and asked for help. I couldn’t remember any surefire advice on how to handle world-class embarrassment.
Chapter Twenty-One
Bettye and I were covering necessary territory, but our progress didn’t rate very highly. I called Stanley and learned the telephone work he and Junior did that morning also didn’t amount to much. Then we tried lady number three, Patsy Craig—the currently single woman who lived in a more modest section of Yorkshire Dales. Patsy owned a one-story, brick rancher.
At thirty-four, Ms. Craig qualified as another very attractive woman; a petite, well-dressed, brunette, who presented a nice package.
She answered the door with her twelve-year-old son who she sent outside while we talked.
The furnishings we saw looked relatively new. The place even smelled clean, but it lacked any hominess or warmth or evidence of personal taste and style. I thought Patsy might have purchased everything from Rooms-to-Go all on one day—the quick, modern and impersonal way of furnishing a home.
Patsy told us that her ex-husband, Edsel (no kidding, just like the old car), took up with a girl in her early-twenties and fell hopelessly in love. When she hired a private detective to watch Edsel and his girlfriend, it took only one weekend to collect enough photographs to sink him in family court and net her the home, generous alimony payments and, of course, child support.
Edsel now worked hard at being a successful insurance salesman in Frankfort, Kentucky where he lived with his younger woman. With those court ordered financial obligations, he needed a successful career.
“Yes, I posed for Cecil,” she said early in the conversation.
“And after the mortgage was co-signed, he asked me to pose again. That filthy old thing threatened to, you’ll pardon the expression, expose my secret.”
She paused to take a breath and lit a cigarette. That annoyed the hell out of me.
She seemed to have no problem with my presence, so I asked the questions. “What happened after that?”
“I got furious. I wanted to hit him, but I started thinking…what do I have to fear? At that point, he had as much to lose as I did if he went public with those pictures. I mean, wasn’t that some kind of crime he committed?”
I nodded. “Yeah,” I said. “Sounds like simple coercion to me. If you complained, he could have been arrested.”
“So,” Patsy said, “I told him that. I told him if he tried anything funny, I’d just be embarrassed, but I’d call the cops on him…sorry, the police…and have his sorry ass locked up for threatening me or coercing or whatever you call it. So he backed off. And I never heard from that pig again.”
Patsy spoke in clipped, staccato phrases and seemed almost hyper. The cigarette did nothing to calm her down. I was afraid she’d light another.
Patsy told us Edsel never learned about her secret connection to Cecil, and they were able to keep up with the house payments while still married. After the divorce, the court mandated he do so.
All this made me inclined to think we could eliminate Patsy as a suspect until she mentioned that her new boyfriend would just die and she would be embarrassed to death if the photos surfaced. Bettye wanted to expand on that a little.
“What do you think your ex would do if he found out about the pictures?” Bettye asked.
“What do you mean do?” Patsy said.
I took a shot again. "If the photos became public knowledge, do you think he'd claim posing for Lovejoy made you an unfit mother? Does he want custody of your son, and would he take you to court to get it?”
“Edsel Craig doesn't want anything to do with his son,” she said, bristling with attitude. “He didn't even send the boy a birthday card. If the court didn't make him pay child support, he wouldn't.”
“So he wouldn't even try to get custody to spite you and maybe get the court to cut down the amount of money he pays?" Bettye asked.
“He'd need a lawyer for that, right?”
Bettye and I nodded.
“And lawyers cost money?”
We nodded again.
“Edsel wouldn't spend a nickel to get his child back. If he had a son to look after, he'd have less time for that slut he married."
She talked up a good theory, but I wasn't sure it rang true. It seemed for every two steps we took forward, we dropped back at least one.
“Here’s the all important question, Ms. Craig,” I said. “Where were you and your boyfriend on Saturday between 4:30 and 5:30?”
“We were both here all day. We watched a DVD with my son, a Disney movie. We barbequed steaks for dinner, and when I put Danny to bed about nine o’clock, Chris and I watched another movie and finished a bottle of wine. That one was not a Disney flick.”
She offered a sly smile designed to make us think she and Chris were wild and crazy people. I guess she never met Teena and Gary Rogers. I remained unimpressed. I think Bettye was a tough customer, too.
“We ended up getting a little, uh…cozy on the couch. Chris stayed the night.”
“Would it be silly for me to ask if anyone can verify you two were here at that time?” I said.
“No one saw us. Maybe somebody saw the smoke from the grill.”
“That’s not a very credible alibi, is it?”
“Gee, I guess not.”
She took a final drag from her cigarette and snuffed it out in a well-used ashtray.
* * * *
Our fourth subject, Veronica Keeble, lived in a more upscale section of the subdivision. Bettye and I found ourselves in front of a large colonial that must have cost $450,000. That price tag is no big deal in the suburbs of Seattle, but in East Tennessee, money like that buys you a very nice home. Like most of the houses in Yorkshire Dales, it had lots of curb appeal. I rang the doorbell.
I’ve said the other three women were attractive. Veronica Keeble qualified as a certified knockout. Tall, blonde, shapely and very, very pretty, her conservative, well-dressed appearance went perfectly with the house and the neighborhood. She invited us in.
“You sound like you may have lived up around the Great Lakes,” I said after a few moments of conversation.
“You have a good ear. I grew up in Chicago. I met my husband there.”
“You’re both from Chicago?” Bettye asked.
“Dwight is from here in Maryville. He moved to Chicago for an engineering job he got right out of college,” she said.
“Have you two been married long?”
“No, four years. Dwight married his high school sweetheart after he graduated and then moved to Illinois. Right after they divorced, he and I got together. My husband is fifty-three, eighteen years older than I am.
I could understand how an older guy feeling the mid-life crunch could have fallen in love with Veronica Keeble and ditched his spouse and former life. He certainly wouldn’t be the first or last.
“How did you two get back to Tennessee?” Bettye asked.
“Dwight was a victim of company downsizing. Four months before his twenty-fifth year with them, he walked in one Friday morning and found a pink slip on his desk. He’d get no pension, and he’d be out in the cold—literally. Chicago is not very warm in January.”
We switched topics, and Bettye brought up Cecil Lovejoy. Mrs. Keeble admitted a vague memory of him, but said she hadn’t seen him since purchasing the land. Bettye refreshed her memory with a photo. Cecil’s photographic skills were truly lousy. Veronica Keeble was quite beautiful—the photos didn’t do her justice.
When we reached the point of discussing Cecil’s sexual affinities, she said, “I’m sorry, but do you think I could speak to you alone?”
“Of course,” I said. “I’ll wait in the car.”
“No, I meant I’d like to speak to you alone. Is that okay?” She indicated the ‘you’ meant m
e.
“Then I’ll wait in the car.” Bettye put a sharp edge on her statement.
My partner didn’t look like she could handle professional rejection as well as I could.
It seemed like an odd request, and I wasn’t sure being alone with Mrs. Keeble would be in my best professional or personal interest.
“Why don’t you and I finish our discussion while we take a walk outside?” I suggested.
“Certainly. I’m fine with that,” Veronica said.
Bettye went to the car. I gave her my keys, and she stayed cool in the air conditioning. Veronica and I began our walk down the blacktop street. There was no breeze, and sun felt warm on my face. I hoped my Right Guard worked efficiently.
“Okay, Mrs. Keeble, it’s your dime.”
“Thank you for this,” she said. “I’m sorry, but I just didn’t want to tell you any more in front of Little Miss Perfect. I couldn’t stand anyone getting judgmental with me.”
I felt sure Bettye would love to hear her new sobriquet.
“Sure, I understand. I might be the least judgmental person you’ll meet today.” I smiled. She did, too.
We walked slowly, and she began her story. “When I met Dwight, he was separated from his wife. She’d gone back to Tennessee. He stayed in Chicago. That was three years before he got fired. I was Roni Kozlowski back then, a working girl, if you know what I mean.”
“As in the oldest profession?”
“You’ve got it.”
Now her request began to make more sense.
“You were a carpenter?” Occasionally I’m unable to resist applying some of the old Jenkins’ wit.
She laughed at that. “No, not that old profession.”
“I see. Sorry I interrupted.” I smiled again. She continued.
“Back then Dwight and I used to get together at eight-hundred-dollars a night. Then he fell in love with me. I liked him, too. I told you he’s eighteen years older than me, but there was just something nice and safe about him. He was one of the different ones, very straight and very gentle. He wanted to make love and be loved, not just hit the sack with anyone he could buy. We started seeing each other more often—off the clock, if you know what I mean.”
I nodded and let her continue at her own pace.
“When he lost his job he called me before anyone else. I really felt sorry for him. He got a decent severance package, but nothing that would last forever. After he got his check, he asked me to marry him. He told me he’d sell his house in Chicago and get a divorce. He even offered to give my madam his severance check if she’d let me go.”
