A New Prospect

by Wayne Zurl

  The gates opened. I rolled up the 150 feet of driveway leading to a blacktop loop in front of the entrance.

  All the flowers and other plantings glistened, still shiny and wet from the automatic sprinklers that watered the grounds each morning. The Lovejoy gardeners took no time off to mourn Cecil’s demise. Someone had removed all the dead flower heads from the plants, and any weed arrogant enough to sprout up in the decorative beds had been terminated with extreme prejudice. I assumed Miss Pearl commanded the agricultural troops on the estate.

  Several black-capped chickadees hopped about in the flowerbeds. Three red-breasted robins walked along the wet grass and picked the ground for earthworms. It seemed like a good day to tighten up Pearl Lovejoy.

  I parked, rang the chimes and met a middle-aged woman I thought to be the housekeeper. Money didn’t ooze from her pores, so she couldn’t have been a family member.

  “Good mornin’, sir,” she said. “Will ya follow me to the family room, please?”

  She led me through the house to the room where I originally met the grieving family. The Widow Lovejoy waited quietly on a sofa, looking dreadfully Southern. A tray with a hand-painted pitcher and two glasses sat on the cocktail table in front of her.

  “Good mornin’, sir,” Pearl said. “Care for a glass of sweet tea?”

  She extended a hand, palm upward, toward an easy chair across from her, inviting me to sit.

  I accepted her offer of tea and sat down. I remained quiet, spending a brief moment looking at her.

  Her face appeared more wrinkled than I remembered. She wore a brightly colored summer pantsuit made from a shiny material. It must have been expensive, like everything else she owned, but it didn’t fit well. It looked too large. Her slender limbs seemed lost under the thin fabric. Even heavy makeup didn’t cover the dark semicircles beneath her cobalt blue eyes. Pearl Lovejoy appeared tired and beaten.

  “Jodie, give Chief Jenkins his tea,” she told her housekeeper.

  Jodie poured a glass almost full and placed it on a coaster sitting atop King Louie’s lamp table to my right. I smiled and nodded a thank you as she left the room.

  I didn’t touch the tea, but I leaned forward in the chair with my elbows resting on my knees, my fingers intertwined, and I spoke earnestly to Miss Pearl.

  “Mrs. Lovejoy, I’m not here to question you. And I’ll only take a few minutes of your time. But I suggest you listen very carefully to what I say. Before I leave, I’ll make another suggestion. It would be in your best interest to do what I tell you. Are we clear on that?”

  She nodded once, but said nothing. I wouldn’t want to play poker with Miss Pearly. She showed no expression or emotion at all. Pure ice. She was a tough customer for a skinny old broad.

  “Yesterday, the innocent man arrested for your husband’s murder was released from custody and his arrest voided. Through those state agents, you caused Mr. Morgan and his family unnecessary anguish and expense. You should be ashamed of yourself. So should the Director of the TBI.”

  Not even a blink from Pearl.

  “You neglected to tell me that last week Federal agents confiscated your husband’s computer as part of their ongoing investigation into child pornography.”

  That statement didn’t change her expression either.

  “Perhaps you thought that wasn’t material to our murder inquiry, but you were wrong. As in any cesspool, Mrs. Lovejoy, things have a way of floating to the surface of an investigation.”

  Even a nasty remark didn’t get her to flinch.

  “I’ve had a long talk with your grandson and then with your daughter. I spoke to Juanita a second time this morning. It was an interesting conversation. You need to speak with her as soon as possible. You might learn something very interesting—if you already don’t know. You also need to tell both Juanita and Randy that you love them. I think that’s very important right now and, under the circumstances, the least you should do.

  “And lastly, Mrs. Lovejoy, this is the part you should pay particular attention to. You need to call whatever political piss-ants your father spoke to before and suggest that the investigation into your late husband’s death may be long, complicated and perhaps fruitless. The TBI’s efforts might be better spent elsewhere. I, on the other hand, will keep this case open. There is no statute of limitations on a homicide. The killer can be arrested at any time. You understand what I’m telling you?”

  Again she nodded without expression. She looked like I just told her it may rain tomorrow, and she didn’t care.

  “But as you once pointed out, Miss Pearl, the Prospect Police Department is a small organization with limited resources. There are some who may believe we’re not competent enough to solve major crimes. I don’t happen to agree. But I’m a busy man, and I can’t guarantee I’ll have time to give every open case my personal attention.”

  I paused again to let my message sink in. I hoped she understood, but I couldn’t read any comprehension in her face. She hadn’t moved an inch.

  I picked up the glass of tea and took a small sip. The syrupy sweetness almost gagged me. I shuddered and had thoughts of a diabetic coma.

  “Thank you for your time, ma’am,” I said. “I’ll see myself out.”

  As I stood and buttoned my jacket, she spoke.

  “Livin’ with Cecil was very difficult, ya know.”

  It took me a few seconds to respond to her.

  “I wouldn’t begin to imply I know how you feel. I learned a lot about your late husband over the last week. I believe what you’re telling me.”

  “I’m a Tipton, ya know. My family came here long, long ago. This area was still part of North Carolina then, before the American Revolution.”

  I nodded, surprised she’d explain anything to me, but interested in what she had to say.

  “No Tipton should get a divorce. It would be unseemly and much too common. So I stayed with Cecil for forty-three years. He wasn’t always like you saw him.”

  I didn’t think it was time to give her a psychology lesson on her husband’s latent tendencies waiting to be unleashed.

  “I think you caused yourself to suffer greatly during those years,” I said. “Family appearance is important, but that suffering spilled over onto your children and even your grandson.”

  “You’re right, of course,” she said, still with flat affect.

  “Yes, ma’am. Please say hello to your father for me. When we met, I liked him.”

  I had nothing more to say. Neither did she.

  * * * *

  Guys like Buck and Claude Webbster and the others who spoke up for Pearl Lovejoy’s cause couldn’t make it through questioning without showing the telltale afflictions guilty people exhibit during times of stress. They’d blink, fidget, tap the arm of their chair, stop a pattern of movement at the wrong times or just show inappropriate reactions to simple questions.

  A good cop doesn’t need a polygraph in his hip pocket to know when someone is full of shit. Miss Pearl represented a whole different story. Nothing moved her. I used the term pure ice. I meant it. But I believed her to be more troubled than just unemotional. Words like psychopathic and sociopathic came to mind. She seemed totally egocentric, and I thought she lacked a conscience and the ability to discern right and wrong. Minas Tipton said his daughter’s soul had been damaged. Maybe we were both correct.

  Pearl Lovejoy never thanked me when last we saw each other. I didn’t expect she would. She remained expressionless as I turned and walked away. I never looked back.

  * * * *

  “Are you going to get an arrest warrant for Juanita?” Bettye asked later that day after I explained some of what happened.

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Really?”

  I owed Bettye an explanation, but I didn’t want to tell her everything—as I said, for her sake. I didn’t want to put her in a position where if someone—a senior investigator from the TBI, for instance—asked her, she would either admit she knew Juanit
a confessed, or she’d lie to protect me. I rationalized and thought I’d only be telling her one or two little white lies.

  Or would I only be omitting a truth or two? That would be okay. I’d cross my fingers again.

  “All I have,” I said, “is an educated guess—a hunch—everything is purely circumstantial, except for the bruise on her leg.”

  She looked at me as if I came out of left field with some over-the-top theory. “What bruise?”

  “There’s a bruise on her left leg. Like the one I have. I banged my leg on the bumper of Cecil’s Rolls—twice. I’ve got a big black-and-blue bruise just below my knee. So does Juanita.”

  “Perty clever. Sounds like proof ta me, darlin’.” She smiled at her ‘country’ expression. It was the first time she called me darlin’.

  “Yeah, very perty. Remember, her old man sexually abused her for six years when she was just a kid. And he wanted that to start all over again. I’d only embarrass myself if I used the words I think are appropriate to describe that skell. Maybe he deserved to die.”

  “What’s a skell?”

  “Guys like Cecil Lovejoy.”

  “Oh.”

  Her smile turned into a questioning frown. I had five years to explain all my New York expressions to her. One a day would be enough.

  “Let’s look at the law books. I’m sure you know as well as I, in Part One of what the American Bar Association calls their Model Penal Law, there are defenses guilty people can use to get off the hook. I can’t count the number of times the bad guys use them to their advantage and circumvent the system.”

  The radio squawked, and Bobby Crockett in unit 507 said he would be out of the car for a minute at the Git-n-Go market. Bettye acknowledged the call and turned back to me. I continued.

  “Maybe this is a time we should let them work for someone justified in stopping unspeakable things from happening to her. Besides, I’ve been told to back off this case. They don’t want my opinion.”

  Bettye just looked at me for a moment—expressionless. Then she shook her head; her ponytail swayed from side to side. Her smile returned. She looked nice.

  “What am I goin’ to do with you, Sammy?”

  “What?”

  “You’re beginnin’ to remind me of Li’l Donnie.”

  “You told me your son is eight years old.”

  “I know that.”

  “Jeez, Betts.”

  The phone rang and saved me from further scolding.

  “We’re closed,” I said. “Let it ring.”

  “It’s on your line. Caller ID shows it’s your home number, probably your wife.”

  “Okay.”

  She handed me the phone.

  “Café Americain, Rick speaking,” I said with a familiar lisp.

  Bettye giggled. Kate spoke to me.

  “Then I have the right number,” she purred. “I wanted to let you know, Mr. Blain, that Nonie Morgan called. Georgie got sprung early this morning, and now he’s on the lam.”

  Kate’s always been pretty quick responding to my nonsense.

  “On the lam?” I said.

  “I thought Lauren Bacall would say something like that.”

  “Wrong movie. Get your dames straight, doll-face.”

  “Oh. Anyway, they wanted to thank you, and I wanted to know if you’d be coming home regular time today.”

  “I’m almost finished here, sweetheart. I won’t be too much longer. But I’ve got to take Claude Raines out and pick up the usual suspects.”

  “Okay, swell,” she said, “if ya need anything, just whistle. You know how to whistle, don’t ya?”

  “I sure do, and here’s lookin’ at you, kid.”

  “See ya later, Humphrey.”

  I handed the receiver back to Bettye and shrugged. She smiled. I noticed the overhead lights in the office made those little gold flecks in her eyes sparkle again.

  “I guess we’re about finished with the Lovejoy case?” she asked.

  I nodded. “Yes, we are.”

  We both stood up.

  “Oh, by the way,” I said. “I really appreciate your help with this. I guess I needed a partner.”

  “You’re welcome, sir. I’m happy to be your partner.”

  “I hate to say this, but since we were never supposed to be investigating this thing, I can’t submit an overtime request for the extra hours you worked after the TBI took over.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Sam. I don’t need the extra pay. I’m just glad I could help you.”

  “Hey, just because I alluded to it, do you think you’re Wonder Woman?”

  She certainly was built like Lynda Carter.

  Bettye just smirked.

  “That’s not how it works,” I said. “I can’t get you pay—this time—but I can give you a day back—and I want to. When you need the time off, I’ll cover for you. Just go about your business and if nothing happens, we’re okay. If you run into the mayor’s wife in the mall or something equally horrible happens, call me, and I’ll write in a sick day.”

  “You’ve got it all figured out, haven’t you?”

  “Sure, I’ve done stuff like that for years.”

  “Do you do anything that won’t get you into trouble?”

  “Not often, but sometimes.”

  “That’s very nice of you, but—”

  “No buts. I want you to take a day off, whenever you’d like. I’ll remind you—plan on it.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Yes, ma’am. And if we ever have to work a regular day off again on an investigation, you don’t have to wear your uniform.” I realized that sounded inappropriate…and stupid. Bettye giggled again. “I’ll rephrase that,” I said, “so I don’t sound quite as foolish and inept with language.”

  She tilted her head and fluttered her eyelashes. Mrs. Lambert was having fun at my expense.

  “I meant you may certainly come to work wearing civilian clothes if the circumstances so dictate. Understand?”

  “Oh, okay.”

  “Now, if you have something to do at lunch time, take as long as you’d like. I have fun dispatching the cars. I’m happy to do your job.”

  “Thanks, Sam. I do have a few errands to run. I promised Li’l Donnie to make his favorite for dinner tonight—a meat loaf with roasted onions and mashed potatoes, and I have to stop at the store and take everything home.”

  “Sounds like the kid has a good appetite.”

  “Yes, he does.”

  “And the meatloaf sounds good. Okay then, go out, and do your thing. I’ll watch the store while you shop. And thanks again.”

  * * * *

  Satisfied with how I handled the case, I thought I’d put it to rest. Tomorrow promised to be a new day, new crimes to solve and new dragons to slay, if I wanted to capitalize on the medieval persona Ms. Williamson gave me. At home, I decided to start off by making my wife a nice dinner.

  I oven roasted a mix of red, yellow and orange peppers, fresh asparagus and red onions with olive oil and garlic. A pot full of pasta called casarecce sat bubbling on the stove, ready to be drained. I combined everything in a big wok, added a little more oil and some white wine and let them meld together.

  I filled a skillet with fresh shrimp and sautéed them—again in olive oil, with white wine and minced garlic. Shrimp need only two or three minutes to cook properly—no more. Finally, I added a liberal sprinkling of chili powder to the whole concoction.

  When all that looked done, I divided the goodies, added some Romano cheese and called Katherine to dinner. Who wouldn’t enjoy that?

  After the meal, I poured us each another glass of wine from the magnum bottle of Cavitt pinot grigio, a lovely Italian import I bought on my last foray into a Knoxville liquor store. We adjourned to the living room.

  “You know,” I said, “twenty years ago I’d never let Juanita Mashburn off the hook for killing her father, regardless of his status as a miserable bastard.”

  “Are you sure?” she asked.r />
  The floor lamp on her right made the sliver streak in Kate’s hair shine.

  “Yeah, it just wasn’t part of the drill. I always used discretion, but murder was murder.”

  “Do you have any idea why you changed your way of doing things? Why was this case different?”

  “Good question, sweetie. Maybe I don’t need to prove anything any more? There are no statistics needed to keep the squad looking good. Maybe I’m just getting old and have to make a statement. I think the system sucks, and she needed a break in life.”

  Kate took another tiny sip of wine from a glass still mostly full.

  “Shitheads who commit violent home invasions may only do five years because prisons are overcrowded. Brutal rapists and sodomites go free because a defense lawyer can tell a jury the victim slept around a little. I won’t even mention what wise guys who rat out their associates get away with. Here, the so-called victim was a lousy low-life, and the perpetrator was a pitiful victim. Maybe it’s about sticking my nose into the system to get some real justice.”

  “Sammy, do you think by allowing Juanita to go free she’ll go out and commit another crime and harm someone?”

  “I seriously doubt that.”

  “Then maybe, my love, you made the right decision based on compassion and understanding. Maybe the system needs more guys like you?”

  Kate paused, tilted her head and continued. She can smile with her eyes and often does. She thinks it’s subtle. That evening she found it amusing to quote something famous for me.

  “You know, of course, Gandhi said, ‘Be the change you want to see in the world.’”

  “I’m familiar with that quotation,” I said, like I used it daily.

  “You are?” She sounded surprised.

  “Sure, it’s a very gentle way of saying shit or get off the pot.”

  “Oh, Sammy, you’ve got such a way with words.”

  A Simon and Garfunkle CD played on the stereo. The boys sang the tale of Richard Cory. It made me think back to when Kate and I were kids on Long Island—driving around in my ’62 MG-A roadster with the top down. There is no better stimulant to the memory than music.

  And I couldn’t help thinking, if Cecil Lovejoy had done like Richard Cory and put a bullet through his head, he would have saved lots of people a lot of grief.

  “You rarely hear them play these guys’ music on the radio any longer. Too bad. They did some great stuff,” I said.