The Cinco de Mayo Murder (18 page)

“I've been told by several people who graduated from Rimson that you planned to join Heinz in Arizona for a hike.”

“That's true,” Steve Millman said. “I did plan it, but I backed out at the last minute.”

“What happened?”

“My father arranged a job interview for me in Phoenix for the day we wanted to go down to Picacho Peak, and I couldn't break the appointment.”

“What did Heinz do?” I asked.

“He went hiking without me.”

“How did he get to Picacho Peak?”

“My mother said he rented a car.”

“Do you remember what car rental company he used?”

There was a silent second. “Car rental company? Twenty years ago? I wasn't even in the house when he made the call.”

“What happened to his suitcase?”

“What suitcase?”

“The one he took with him from Rimson.”

“No idea. He must have taken it in the car. It wasn't in our house.”

“So he packed up his belongings, rented a car, and drove away?”

“That's what happened. I think my mother made him a sandwich. She was that kind of mother.”

“When did you find out about Heinz's death?”

“I don't remember. I think there was a piece in the paper about a body being found on Picacho Peak.”

“Did you tell anyone?”

“Like who?”

I cringed slightly at his grammar. “Like the people you were friendly with at Rimson.”

“It was a busy summer, Mrs. Brooks. I got that job and I worked my tail off.”

“Mr. Millman, we've found new information on the circumstances of Heinz's death. He was definitely hiking with someone.”

“So he met a guy in the parking lot. I don't know anything about it.”

He was starting to annoy me. “And no one called your home about the rental car?”

“Not that I remember. Maybe the cops took care of it.”

“They didn't. As far as they know, there wasn't any rental car.”

“Look, you're trying to make me responsible for things I know nothing about. My information is that he rented a car. That's all I can tell you. And he took his luggage with him. He didn't leave anything at our house.”

“Why did you drop out of Rimson?” I asked.

“For a lot of reasons. One, my job became permanent. Another is that I found out about Heinz and I felt pretty awful.”

“Did anyone call to tell you?”

“Not that I remember. It's possible.”

“Did you fly down to Phoenix with Heinz?”

“Uh, yeah, I think so.”

“When you left the dorm, did you both ride to the airport in the same taxi?”

“Yes, we did. Dragged our suitcases down the stairs and got in a taxi.”

“Was anyone else in that taxi?” I asked.

“There wasn't room. We had a lot of luggage between us. He took everything he had to Arizona. He was going home from there. There wasn't room for another suitcase in that cab. We were really loaded down.”

I wasn't happy. He had ready answers and none of them matched what I already knew, or had been told. “When you heard that Heinz had died, did you call his parents to give them your condolences?”

Now the silence was longer. “I don't think so. Where is this going?”

“I'm trying to find out how and why he died,” I said. “I
knew him in high school. He was a nice person. He didn't deserve to die an early death. His death destroyed his parents. That's where this is going.”

“Well, I wish you luck. If you find out what happened, let Marty know. He may be able to find me again. You have any other questions? I'm kind of busy.”

“I have no more questions, Mr. Millman, but I'd like to tell you that I don't believe what you've told me. I think you were there on the mountain with Heinz. I don't think there was a rental car. I think he was driven to Picacho Peak by a friend and he left his suitcases in the friend's car. His death was a tragedy, but I'm not convinced it was accidental.”

“What are you saying?”

“Someone was with him and witnessed the fall. That person removed the small backpack Heinz was carrying.”

“How do you know this?”

“Because the backpack wasn't there when my witnesses went up the trail a day or so after his death, but it was there when they came down.”

“Well, it sounds like you've found people who know a lot more about this than I do. I wish you luck. Marty, I'm hanging up. Thanks for arranging this.” And he clicked off.

“You there, Chris?”

“Yes, I'm here.”

“You get anything out of it?”

“Almost nothing that Steve told me matches what I've been told by other people.”

“So someone is lying.”

“It would seem that way.”

“And you think it's Steve.”

“I do,” I said. “If it isn't Steve, it has to be several other people.”

“Which ones?”

I was about to name names and then I stopped. I had reached a point in this case where I didn't know whom to trust, and that included Marty McHugh, even though he had located Steve Millman for me and arranged this conversation. “I don't know, Marty,” I said wearily. Eddie was tugging at my sleeve, trying to show me something. “How did you find him, by the way?”

“Just kept at it. I have a network of friends and associates that rivals the FBI.”

I wasn't sure whether to believe that, either. “Well, I appreciate your help.”

“Keep me on your radar, OK? If you find out anything, give me a call. I'd like to know who was responsible for Heinz's death if it wasn't an accident.”

“If I come up with anything. Thanks for your help.”

I hung up and took care of Eddie's immediate needs. Maybe it was time to call Joseph and sit down with her. My head was in a scramble and I couldn't see a way out. I grabbed a cookie for myself and went upstairs with Eddie.

Jack laughed when I described the phone call. “Sounds like he had a list of every fact you've written down so he could contradict it.”

“You may be right. I went back and read my notes from this man Andrew Franklin in Minneapolis. He remembers helping Heinz down the stairs with his suitcases and putting him into an empty taxi that took off for the airport. Steve Millman says he and Heinz dragged their suitcases down the stairs and got in a taxi and went to the airport together. And they flew to Phoenix on the same plane.”

“You know,” my husband said reasonably, “it doesn't take much to put those two descriptions together if you're willing to forgive a man's twenty-year-old memory. Andrew Franklin helped Heinz downstairs and put him in an
empty taxi. Then Franklin went back up to his room and studied for an exam. Steve Millman went down by himself a few minutes later and got in the taxi that Heinz was already in.”

“They seemed so sure when they told me. Andrew Franklin swore no one else was in the taxi when it took off.”

“Anyway, you've confirmed that Heinz went to Phoenix and stayed with Millman's family.”

“Yes, but Steve added a rental car. And frankly, Jack, that's just not true. The police would have found it in the parking lot when they closed up the park at night.”

“Unless someone else was with Heinz and that person drove it away and returned it. And paid for it.”

“Someone else,” I said.

“That's why the backpack was taken, to find the rental contract.” He was using his hypothetical voice, the tone that said, This could have happened, but I'm not saying it did.

“It gives me more unanswered questions. What if Heinz had the car keys in his pocket, which is where people usually keep them? The other person would've had a difficult time getting down to him to find them, not to mention getting back up. And he might have drawn attention to himself if people came by. Jack, this Marty McHugh, I keep thinking that he could have known all along where Steve Millman was, that he called the people I called just so that I would believe he was making the effort if I ever talked to them.”

“You're starting to sound like me.”

“You mean, Trust no one?”

“That sounds good. You know someone in that gang was with Heinz on the mountain. They're all telling you the same story: I wasn't there. The guy who's lying just blends in with the ones who're telling the truth. Somehow you've got to see what's different about his story, what points to him as a liar.”

It was Steve whose story was different. The introduction of the rental car just didn't fit. I simply didn't believe it. And I didn't believe his father had made a firm commitment that Steve would appear at a job interview on the day of the scheduled hike. Both of those things sounded to me like rationalizations that had been worked out to explain away a painful truth.

“There's one person I believe in all this,” I said. “Michael Borden. He didn't live on the corridor but he was Heinz's friend. Heinz told him he was going hiking with Steve Millman.”

“And Millman confirms that Heinz came to the Millman house.”

“Yes. But from that point, the stories diverge.”

“Even so, you've got agreement now on where Heinz went after the semester was over and where Millman went, and you've put them together in the same house.”

“And then the sun came up the next morning, on Cinco de Mayo,” I said. “And nobody agrees on what happened after that.”

I arranged for Elsie to pick up Eddie after school on Tuesday. I was going to the funeral and wasn't sure how long I would be away from home. When I reached Hillside Village, Dr. Farley took me aside.

“Would you be able to say a few words about Mrs. Gruner? It's a short service, and I'd like some friends to speak.”

“Of course.” I made a few notes in my notebook before I took my seat.

Before I entered the large room where the service was taking place, I noticed a man standing by himself against the wall in the corridor. He seemed to be watching the people who walked or rolled past him. I had the sense that he was aching for a cigarette.

Just on a chance, I walked over to him and said, “Mr. Koch?”

He looked startled. “Yes. Who are you?”

“Chris Bennett. We spoke on the phone yesterday. I'm glad you came. I hope we can talk.”

“I'm busy this afternoon. I won't be going to the cemetery, but I can find some time, perhaps tomorrow.” He pulled a small agenda out of his inside jacket pocket and flipped it open. “I have a free hour from eleven to twelve.” He said it in a take-it-or-leave-it tone.

“I can be there. Give me the address.”

He handed me a card, adding something in ink.

“I'll see you tomorrow.” I went inside and sat down.

I was the third person called to speak. The other two were Dr. Farley and a woman who had known Mrs. Gruner for many years, having lived near her before she came to Hillside Village. I took my place at the lectern and talked about my long-ago acquaintanceship with Heinz Gruner and my new friendship with his mother. Ten minutes after I finished, the funeral was over.

I joined the residents who were riding to the cemetery in the bus. When the graveside service was over, I took the rose I had been given and laid it on top of the casket. This had been a brief and unexpected friendship for both of us, but one that each of us appreciated. I felt very sad that the life and the friendship had ended.

As the group moved back toward the bus, I stopped at Heinz's stone and said a prayer. Then I left a bunch of spring flowers I'd brought with me.

During lunch at Hillside Village, Dr. Farley asked if I was free to go to the bank with him. I said I was.

We left before most of the residents had finished eating and walked out to his car. He drove several miles and turned into a parking lot next to a bank. We went in, and he
identified himself satisfactorily. I gave him the key and the clerk presented him with the box. Together we went to a small room with a dim light, a shelf, and one chair. He opened the box and started removing one paper after another. The top sheet was an inventory; as he came upon each item, he checked it off.

“This is her will,” he said, extracting a thick envelope with a lawyer's return address. “I have a copy.”

“Did she designate beneficiaries?”

“Most of it is going to the Rimson College Library. She and her late husband established an endowment to buy books in memory of their son. This will increase the principal so the college can buy more books each year.”

“That's a good thing to do with the money,” I said.

There was an insurance policy that dated from decades back. The beneficiary had become the Rimson College Library. A few government bonds were there, a mortgage application for a house she had not lived in for almost twenty years, some small family photographs, a few pieces of jewelry. A woman's diamond watch, a man's wedding ring, a bracelet in three colors of gold, and a couple of rings were wrapped in soft cotton cloth.

I found myself feeling sadder looking at the contents of the box than I had at the funeral and later at the cemetery.

“Are you all right?” Dr. Farley asked.

I shook my head.

He pulled out the chair and told me to sit. I followed his suggestion, taking a tissue from my bag and drying my eyes.

“I understand,” he said. “A life in a small box.” He picked up the bracelet and looked at it, then the rings, which were gold and appeared to be quite old. “I'd like you to take one of these for yourself, Mrs. Brooks. I think Hilda would
have been pleased to know you were wearing something from her family.”

“What are you supposed to do with it?” I asked.

“Sell it and turn the proceeds over to the Rimson Library. There are no descendants, no immediate family.”

“I think it should all go to the library.”

He rewrapped the jewelry and put everything in the slim leather zipper case he was carrying. I pushed the chair back and stood, aware of the tightness of the space. Dr. Farley opened the door and settled with the clerk, closing the account on the box. When we opened the door to the bank, I was surprised by the brilliance of the sunshine.