Smith - No One Is Perfect: The True Story Of Candace Mossler And Americas Strangest Murder

Key Biscayne, Florida

June 30, 19641:15 a.m.

The old man sat on the small balcony of his second floor apartment, taking in the soft breeze blowing off the Atlantic. A waning half-moon created faint shadows on Sunrise Drive. The stiff fronds of the royal palms along the street rustled gently against one another, creating the only sounds in the darkness. Governors Lodge was the newest apartment development on Key Biscayne, situated one block from the ocean. It would be several decades before a bank of massive high-rise hotels and condos would rise along the beach, taking away any view of the ocean from those who resided on the interior streets of the island. For now, the old mans apartment was one of the few in the building that offered a partial view of the sea.

The apartment building was painted the color of yellow straw, which contrasted nicely with the cat palms and red hibiscus populating the landscaped areas of the property. When Governors Lodge opened the previous November, it had been marketed as a quiet getaway for the prosperous. The old man had chuckled at that description. His net worth was in the millions and only a few miles away, in downtown Miami, he had constructed a high-rise office structure that dwarfed this three story building and its thirty-three flats. The six hundred square feet of his modest two-bedroom apartment would fit easily into the dining room of his mansion in Houston. The narrow balcony afforded just enough space for two patio chairs. Prosperous the irony still amused him.

Lying next to him on the cool tile floor of the balcony was Rocky, his year old black boxer. Like his master, Rocky enjoyed the soothing comfort of the gentle breeze. The big dog snored, oblivious to the heavy thoughts of the old man. The late night sky was free of cloud cover, allowing the soft moonlight to illuminate the ink black surface of the ocean. Far off in the distance, the old man could see the navigation lights of a large northbound freighter. The solitude of the big ships bound for some faraway port had come to represent the kind of distance that he would like to put between himself and the tumultuous state of his life in these golden years. More than sixty years earlier, he and his family had come to America on a rickety freighter. Now, he sometimes liked to imagine that he was back onboard one of those steamers, sailing away from his troubles.

Tonight, he was tired. Three of his children were in the midst of a two week visit; one of the boys was still in Texas, attending summer camp and would join his siblings next week. The old man had spent the morning with them on the beach before going into the office. He had promised to take them shopping tomorrowwhich was now, today. He glanced at his Rolex. Sometime around midnight, his wife had left the apartment with the children, who were staying a few blocks away at a beachfront hotel. There was not enough room in his small apartment for everyone to stay overnight. His wife also held a room at the hotel, but she sometimes returned to the apartment and slept in the second bedroom. Her return tonight probably hinged on whether her lover was also in town. The old man was aware that her boyfriend had flown in from Houston the previous week and accompanied her on a three-day trip to Nassau while the three younger children stayed behind with him.

Any semblance of discretion in his wifes affair vanished almost a year ago, when the household staff could no longer keep him in the dark about her behavior. If anything, her conduct had become more brazen after he confronted her. The humiliation had driven him out of the mansion in Houston and soon afterwards he took up residence in this simple apartment. He had been advised to consider establishing residence in Florida in preparation for a divorce that would become very public and very nasty. There was also a great deal of money at stake.

Over a period of more than fifty years, he had built a financial organization that included multiple banks and personal loan corporations. Less than a month ago, he had turned sixty-nine years old. He was living in self-imposed exile, separated from his children as he considered his next steps.

She had once been his trophy wifeblonde, beautiful, and twenty five years his junior. Early in the marriage, she sometimes became jealous of his attention to the many corporations he had developed, but she certainly enjoyed the lifestyle that those businesses supported. As often happens in a May-December relationship, he became less interested in the sex that had been such an attraction early on. As they grew older, he had hoped that her insatiable sex drive would diminishit did not. She grew more reckless and less attentive to him. She indulged in pastimes and developed a circle of friends that she knew would antagonize him. Now, he had to ask himself: What contest in hell had he won, in which she was the trophy?

The childrens visit to Miami was bittersweet for him. It caused him great pain to know that they had to have lost respect for him. Their mother had emasculated him publicly and he was still searching for legal remedies to rid himself of her, without rewarding her with half of his fortune. Not so legal solutions crossed his mind, as well. In his world, such options were a possibility.

The children would be heading off to a boarding school in Switzerland when this visit came to an end. He had mixed emotions about allowing them to go so far away. He saw through his wifes explanation that children of their social class would benefit from studying abroad and the kind of social connections that could be forged in a prestigious school. He strongly suspected that his wifes true motive was having the mansion in Houston to herself, allowing her to carry on with her lover in peace. In that regard, the old man saw the benefit in getting the children out of the white-trash melodrama taking place inside their own home. He had adopted them seven years earlier, rescuing them from a tragedy that no child should have to experience; now, they were facing yet another family crisis that was beyond their control. So he would put up with his wifes presence here in Miami if it allowed him time with the children.

But, where was she? He wondered if she had developed another of her migraine headaches. The headaches always seemed to come on late in the night. In the short time that she had been in Miami, she had already made two late night runs to the emergency room. Tonight, she had decided that she needed to drop off a passel of bills into the mail. Routinely, the old man deposited a $5,700.00 household allowance into her account on the last day of each month. Tomorrow would be the first of July, and in yet another of her overwrought, stressful predicaments, she and Rita, her twenty year old daughter, loaded up the three youngsters and left the apartment in search of postage stamps.

It was now 1:28 a.m. He saw a pair of headlights coming eastward on Sunrise Drive. Perhaps it was her. This car was approaching slowly, though, as if its driver was unsure of their destination. His wife typically drove like a bat out of hell. Eventually, the car reached the driveway entrance into Governors Lodge, and turned slowly into the property. He recognized the vehicle as the white Chevrolet that his loan company had checked out for his wifes use on this trip. A second car, a 1962 red Chrysler convertible driven by his step-daughter, had been the vehicle in which the family had driven away less than an hour ago. The old man assumed that, after completing her mission to mail the bills, his wife must have left the convertible with the kids and decided to return to the apartment in the Chevy. He had no idea why she would be coming back to his place at this hour of the night, but he wanted no part of any argument she might wish to begin. Without the childrens presence to serve as a buffer, conversations with her nearly always became toxic.