He shook his head. “The impact wasn’t that great. Toper wasn’t young or in the best of condition. The car probably sustained little damage.”
“Did Toper carry anything that would tell us where he came from and if he had any relatives?”
“Not even a wallet with a picture. The only thing in his pockets was a hundred dollars. Where would Toper get that kind of money at this time of the year?”
“He could have done some work for someone. When he was sober, no one was handier.”
“Not only handy, but educated. He spoke at least three languages.” Blenheim sat at his desk and toyed with a pencil. “Toper wasn’t your average alcoholic. I always had the feeling he could walk away from the bottle whenever he chose.”
“You’re right,” I said. “He hated his annual ninety-day sentence, but even though he had every opportunity to walk out and into the nearest bar, he never stepped outside. He lived by his own rules.”
“I hate to see a man like that end in a paupers grave.”
“So do I,” I said. “That’s why I’d like you to tell Kirk Milford to give him a decent funeral and a regular burial plot, and send me the bill.”
“Half the bill to you,” said Blenheim. “The other half to me.” He smiled. “Of course, there is always the possibility Milford may not send a bill at all. He’s been in shock since his wife left him last week.”
“So I heard.” I zipped up my jacket. “You were the family doctor. Does your code of ethics preclude your telling me why she left?”
He shrugged. “Middle-age syndrome. She wanted to end the marriage and get out of Fox River.”
“Do me a favor,” I said. “You’re a medical expert and not a forensic specialist, but check out Toper’s clothing again before I send it to the State Police lab. Those people take their time and I’d like to settle this quickly.”
He nodded and I left.
On the radio, Julio told me the State Police wanted to see me about ten miles out of town on Highway 13. I pulled up behind the police cruiser parked on a curve about fifteen minutes later. Beyond the cruiser on the opposite shoulder of the road was a big station wagon, its right front caved in from flattening the row of guard posts like dominoes. Hennessey, one of the troopers recently transferred in from further south, came over as I stepped out.
“I found it at dawn,” he said. “There was no one in it, no one around. I ran a make on it. It belongs to Kirk Milford of Fox River. Do you know him?”
I thought of my conversation with Blenheim. “He’s one of the local funeral directors. He’s a little upset at the moment because his wife left him.”
“If he’d been going a little faster, he might have been one of his own customers.” He pointed. “It looks like he came down the hill and didn’t quite make it all the way around.”
“Some of the locals call this Four-Beer Curve,” I said. “Anything more than that under your belt and you end up in the field. I suppose that was Milford’s trouble. Take a good look at the roadbed. It’s the only curve in the county where the road slants away from the center rather than toward it.”
His hands on his hips, Hennessey sighted back along the curve. “I see what you mean. It ought to be fixed before someone gets killed.”
“We’ve tried. If we wanted a few million Federal dollars to build a divided high-speed highway through the center of town, we’d have no problem, but the state doesn’t have a few thousand to spend repaving this.”
He grinned. “That figures. Do you want to take care of it from here in? Since he’s not around, I guess he promoted himself a ride into town, unless he’s sleeping it off in the underbrush somewhere.”
“I’ll see if I can find him and get a tow truck out here if he hasn’t arranged for one.”
“Tell them to expect a bill for the guard rail,” Hennessey said. “Drowning your sorrows can be expensive.”
Milford’s Funeral Home was on the edge of town about six miles down the road, a long, low, red-brick building with a center entrance — four chapels in one wing and the mortuary and office in the other. A driveway led around to the rear where there was a spacious parking lot. In one corner of the lot was another red-brick building that Milford used to garage his hearse and the one limousine he kept on hand.
I went through the back door down a carpeted hallway, past a green-painted metal door labeled no admittance, poked my head into the open door of a walnut-paneled office, saw no one, and continued around to the front of the building. Milford was standing in the entrance lobby, his hands raised against the door frame, staring out into the street — a tired, dejected figure of a man. He was heavy set, middle-aged, of average height, with greying hair and a large nose that supported a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. His face was colorless except for the blue shadows beneath his eyes.
“Milford,” I said.
He glanced over his shoulder. “Hello, Gates.” He lowered his hands reluctantly and turned to me slowly. “Doctor Blenheim called about Toper Kelly. I’m really sorry to hear it. If you want him to have a proper funeral. I’ll be glad to cooperate. I knew him too. I gave him the job of keeping the hearse and limousine washed and polished last summer, but of course he was undependable. I had to let him go.”
“You among many others,” I said. “Toper never let a steady job interfere with his drinking. We found your station wagon out on Highway 13. How did it get there?”
“I’m sure you’ve already guessed. I had too much to drink at a bar down the road and lost control on the curve. I started walking. I walked the whole way. It sobered me up.”
“You walked six miles?”
He smiled. “I can jog five.”
“No one offered you a lift?”
“At four in the morning?”
“The State Police want the car out of there and they’re sending a bill for repairing the guard rail.”
He shrugged. “I intended to call Harry Orbis to tow the car in.”
“I’ll handle it if you like, but I really stopped to tell you that if you insist on drinking, stay home. All you ran into this time was a guard rail. Next time it could be a Toper Kelly.”
“Do you think I don’t know?” He lifted a hand and dropped it. “No need to worry. It was something I had to get out of my system. Running off the road last night was enough to bring me to my senses. You can’t appreciate how much of a shock it is, Gates, to have your wife of fifteen years have you called to the phone from a Chamber of Commerce meeting so she can tell you she’s leaving and won’t be back. I thought it was some sort of a joke, but when I got home she was gone, along with her clothes and her car.”
“Was the car registered in her name?”
“No, in mine. Why?”
“Then she can’t sell it. How much money did she have when she left?”
He straightened his glasses as if to see me more clearly, his eyes wide behind the lenses. “I have no idea. She had her own checking account and credit cards.”
“What can she do to earn a living?”
“She shouldn’t have any trouble getting a job. She practically ran the business here. She had a nice way with people, and she took care of the books, which left me free to take care of the undertaking part. All I needed was Sims, the handyman.” His voice became curious. “Why are you asking me these questions?”
“If you’d like to find her it shouldn’t be too difficult,” I said. “I’d be happy to help. Perhaps if you talked to her...”
He clasped his hands behind his back and took a few steps. “I’ve given that a lot of thought.” His shoulders squared. “I’m a proud man, Gates. I refuse to chase her or beg her to come home no matter how much I need her. I’m not at fault in this. She left of her own accord. Let her come back the same way. I’ll manage.”