Sampler: A Touch of Morning Calm by Wayne Zurl
January 13, 2022
Review: Organized crime, beautiful women, and dead bodies. It all adds up to another great Sam Jenkins mystery.
Chief Sam Jenkins runs headlong into Tennessee’s faction of Korean organized crime when a mobster tries to shake down two former call girls attempting to establish a legitimate business.
Soon, bodies begin piling up—all with a Korean connection—in Sam’s town of Prospect and nearby Knoxville.
Sorting truth from fiction calls for more than Sam and his officers can handle, so he turns to the women in his life for assistance.
His wife, Kate, Sergeant Bettye Lambert, and TV news anchor, Rachel Williamson contribute significantly by helping him investigate these convoluted homicides.
For the last two years, I’ve spent nearly one-third of my life with Sergeant Bettye Lambert, my administrative officer and occasional partner. We get along famously—most of the time.
At my age, you’d expect I’d know how to deal with women, but experience shows I’m not as smart as I think. If I inherited the ability to handle the opposite sex efficiently, I would have taken a different job— like a hairdresser. But apparently in that area I’m hopeless. So I remain a cop.
The main telephone rang on Bettye’s desk. If the caller wanted me, she would buzz my phone and forward the call. Nothing happened. Moments later, she stood in my office doorway, looking a little miffed.
I could always tell when things weren’t going her way. She cocked her left hip to the side and rested a hand there. I thought she looked attractive. With her right hand, she leaned on the doorjamb and scowled at me. At least she wasn’t holding a gun.
“It’s your friend—that cheap blonde,” she said.
Bettye shook her head, and her blonde ponytail swung back and forth. “You know who.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t. Who are you talking about?”
“Well, you seemed to get along with her just fine. It was me she didn’t like.”
“Huh?” I remained in the dark.
“You damn well know who I’m talkin’ about, Sam Jenkins. That blonde we met on the Cecil Lovejoy case—that one from Chicago.”
“Ah-ha.” A light in my brain switched on.
“Yes, ah-ha. Now pick up your damn phone.”
Bettye gets away with saying things like that because we both know how important she is to my little police department. And hearing a note of jealousy in her voice boosts my ego.
“You’re beautiful when you’re angry,” I said. “Just why are you angry?”
“Lord have mercy, you’re pathetic.”
I tried a smile. “That may be true, but you’re still hopelessly in love with me.”
“Not after today, darlin’. I said answer the phone. That one’s waitin’ for ya.” She turned and walked away.
Sergeant Lambert made reference to a woman named Veronica Keeble. Two years ago, after a local man, one Cecil Lovejoy, was murdered in Prospect, Bettye and I interviewed Mrs. Keeble. Sort of a suspect at the time, Veronica was thirty-five-years-old, blonde and absolutely gorgeous. Did I mention she was an ex-hooker?
I answered my phone, curious to learn what ‘that one’ had to say. “Hello, this is Chief Jenkins.” “Well, hello there. It’s been a long time.” She sounded friendly.
“Yes, it sure has. How are you?”
“I’m fine, thanks. Were you the police chief when we first met, or have you been promoted from detective?”
I remembered the time I interviewed her. On a warm July day, we walked down the street where she lived, and I listened to the intimate details of her earlier life.
“Yeah, I was the chief back then. We only have thirteen cops here, so I get to play detective at times. I’d have to sweep the floors, too, if the mayor caught me not looking busy.”
She laughed briefly, something a little husky and a whole lot sexy. “I see. You must have a tough boss.”
I thought about Bettye. “Sometimes I wonder who the boss is around here. What can I do for you, Mrs. Keeble?”
“The last time we spoke, I thought we agreed on Sam and Roni.”
Her voice sounded soft and inviting. Another memory—before we parted company, she asked my first name, shook my hand and left me gazing into the most incredibly blue eyes on the planet.
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