closer and lowered her voice although there was no one else in sight. “A few days before he was killed, Ed mailed me a package with a note saying it was some money for the kids to help with college. The note said to put it in a safe place and that there probably would be more money later. There wasn’t.”
“How much money?”
“Ten thousand dollars,” Mary said slowly. “No way he comes up with that kind of money unless he is into something wrong.”
“Did you ask him about it?”
“Never had the chance.”
The look on Mary’s face was a blend of sadness and anger. I let her words hang for a moment and then asked, “What did you do with the money?”
“I was going to give it back, but before I could Ed was killed. I didn’t know what to do with it so I bought each of the kids a five thousand dollar CD and put them in my safety deposit box. They are still there.”
“You did the right thing,” I assured her. “Were you at the scene of the accident?”
“No. The so-called accident happened around 3 am. I had gotten off work at midnight. I came straight home and went to bed. I found out the next day.”
“Did you see the scene later?”
“Yes,” she answered. “I couldn’t help myself. The more I thought about it the more I did not think it was an accident. The kids were really upset and Ed didn’t have any family other than us so I had to make all the arrangements. By the time I visited the scene it was cleaned up, but it was the perfect place to stage an accident if someone was trying to make it look that way. All the components were there—a fairly long curve, late at night, drunk driver with a history of alcohol, steep embankment, no guardrail. Car goes straight when road curves. Car leaves road, rolls over five or six times, gets torn all to pieces and explodes.”
Mary’s monotone described the scene as if she had been over it many times in her head. She rattled off the details with the blank stare of someone who was not in the present. Mary paused and the stare continued. I reached out and put my hand on her shoulder and brought her back to the here and now.
“Sorry,” she said.
“It’s OK. Were they able to get a blood alcohol level from the body?”
“Yes. Ed was thrown from the car, official cause of death, broken neck. His blood alcohol level was point one five. I screamed for an autopsy and got it. The ME said he thinks Ed was alive when the car left the road but he could not be sure. Nothing he found was inconsistent with the wreck.”
“He could have been unconscious,” I observed.
“Without a doubt,” Mary said.
“Did you try to check out his whereabouts before the accident?”
“Yes. Once I got things settled down with the kids. I never told the kids that I didn’t think Ed’s death was an accident. It would have killed Jimmy. He took it the hardest. Jimmy and his dad were pals. It hurt him so bad he quit the basketball team in mid-season and he was all-city as a freshman. Then he refused to go out for football. Said he would always be looking for his dad in the stands. It took him a while to accept Ed’s death and when he did he went back to sports. Susan and Ed weren’t getting along very well at the time of Ed’s death. Ed wasn’t treating me very well and Susan disliked him for it. She felt guilty that she never resolved the conflict. Anyway, I’m rambling,” she said with a little embarrassed smile. “I loved Ed once and he was the father of my children. If anyone took his life, I want to find out who and why.
“A few days after the funeral I asked Bud Hoffman to check out his local hangouts to see if he had been at one of them the night of his death. Bud was the first on the scene of Ed’s accident and I know him casually. Anyway, no luck—dead-ends everywhere. In fact, he could not find a single person, other than Tom Slack, who had seen Ed alive since he returned from that Connecticut trip.”
My ears perked up. “How did you know Ed went to Connecticut?”
“He told Jimmy. Jimmy was all excited. Ed told him he was going into New York City while he was there and would get Jimmy a Yankees baseball cap. I found the cap in Ed’s apartment when I went through his things.”
I was running out of questions but I was enjoying talking to Mary Sanders. “I was told Bud Hoffman left the Knoxville police force last year. Do you know where he went?”
“New Orleans. Bud was from Louisiana and always wanted to be a part of the New Orleans PD.”
In my mind, I went over everything Mary had told me. Our eyes met in a contemplative stare. Two very different, yet very attractive, women in two days, I needed to get out more often, I thought.
Mary smiled. “Want another case?”
“No, thanks,” I smiled back. “The one I’ve got is tough enough, but if I find out anything else about Ed’s death, I’ll let you know.”
She took out a card and wrote her home number and beeper number on the back, then handed it to me. “If I can ever be of help or if you find out anything, give me a call,” Mary said as we stood up.
“I’ll do it. It was nice meeting you, Mary. Thanks for your time and your honesty.”
She looked directly at me with those piercing blue eyes. “I hope I see you again sometime.”
Before I could think of a reply, Mary Sanders turned and was gone. I watched her disappear out the front door. Now I had two reasons for wanting to come back to Knoxville. I’ve really got to get out of this town, I thought.
I was roaring up I-81 with an urgent need for close female contact in the person of one Sandy Smith. I reached for my cell and speed dialed her work number. “Cassandra Smith,” she answered.
“You might want to record this. It’s going to be an obscene phone call.”
“Great, those are the best kind.”
“Please tell me that we are on for tonight.”
“You too, huh? Damn right we are. Better be well rested.”
I slowed to seventy-five miles an hour and put the Pathfinder on cruise. “No problem,” I said. “But cut the sexy talk before I run off the road.”
She laughed. “I can’t talk now, lover. Got to run. See you around seven?”
“Count on it,” I said and hung up. The drive home had just become a whole lot more enjoyable. I never did believe the old saying that anticipation is ninety per cent of satisfaction, but it sure has its place.
I observed daylight making its slow retreat behind the Great Smoky Mountains as I knocked on Sandy’s condo door. She lived in the same complex that I did except at the other end in building one. It was a very long walk that Jake and I both needed. The nights were getting progressively cooler and the mountain air was fragrant with autumn smells, my favorite time of the year. Sandy opened the door and I forgot all about weather and seasons. She was wearing sandals, jeans, a T-shirt, and a big smile. A faint hint of nipples from her ample breasts accented her T-shirt suggesting she was not wearing a bra. Her black curly hair glistened
