The Cinco de Mayo Murder (22 page)

“So Steve is lying to cover up the fact that McHugh went to Arizona.”

“And that's why Marty wants to be on the line when I talk to Steve.”

“You have any reason to believe they killed Heinz?”

“Jack, I don't know why anyone would kill Heinz. I just talked to his oldest friend from high school, Don Shiller. He read me parts of three letters that Heinz wrote to him in the last months of his life. It's all so innocent. Heinz talks about wanting to be there to hike on Cinco de Mayo. He says he's going with this guy who lives in Phoenix.”

“That's Millman.”

“That's Millman. And then he says something odd: that this guy—he never mentions the name—is kind of related to him.”

“Interesting.”

The coffee had made its way into the carafe, and Jack removed the grounds. I took the cookies into the family room and he followed me with the coffee.

“And that's it, no follow-up. Oh yes, he mentions that the Millmans have two cars and they'll let Heinz and his friend use one to drive to Picacho Peak.”

“So no talk about renting.”

“No. I'm afraid most of what Steve Millman told me was untrue, except for the fact that Heinz stayed overnight with the Millmans.”

“So how's my friend Sister Joseph?” he said, switching to a happier subject.

“She's fine. Nothing's new with the convent. Dolores baked for you and Eddie.”

“Then I don't have to share with you?” He looked pixieish, very much like his son.

“Two of a kind,” I said. “Eddie thought you were too old to eat cookies.”

“My kid said that about me?”

“As he dug into Dolores's bag.”

“Boy. I never would've thought.”

At nine on Friday morning I called Marty McHugh. “Any progress on getting me a private chat with Steve Millman?” I asked.

“He just won't go for it,” Marty said. “I'm sorry. It's out of the question.”

“I talked to another old friend of Heinz's yesterday,” I said, “and he confirmed that Heinz went hiking with Steve.” I waited for his response.

“Who was this person?” Marty asked finally.

“A high school friend. You wouldn't know him, but I knew him.”

“He must have heard that before Heinz's trip, because Steve says he didn't go on the hike.”

“Right,” I said, as though he had just reminded me of that “fact.” “I forgot Steve didn't go. Or says he didn't go.”

“Why would he lie about it?” Marty said. “Because whoever was with Heinz knows the truth about what happened.”

“You still think someone was with him.”

“I know someone was with him.” “Well, if you figure out who it was, I'd like to know.”

“And if Steve decides to come around and talk to me one-on-one, I'm available.”

“I'll keep that in mind.”

I'm sure you will, I thought as I hung up. I was convinced that he had never called Steve about a private conversation; he had just made the decision himself. Joseph was right. Marty McHugh was the third man on the mountain.

It now appeared that there were two possible events that may have happened on the trail on the mountain in Arizona. The first was that a terrible accident had occurred while the three young men were hiking. The two survivors had made a pact never to tell anyone lest it appear that one or both of them be considered responsible for Heinz's death. I could imagine that they were afraid to report the accident for fear of being implicated; or perhaps they were just young and scared and they gave in to their instinct to run and leave the tragedy behind.

The second possibility was that one of those young men had a grudge against Heinz for a reason I could not imagine. Or perhaps an argument developed as they hiked and Steve or Marty pushed Heinz, without meaning to take his life. It might have been a spur-of-the-moment thing, or involved the plagiarism, or perhaps the failure to repay a loan.

I admitted to myself that I was disappointed in Marty McHugh. I had felt so sorry for him after the plagiarism story that I didn't want to believe he was involved in Heinz's death. I saw him as honorable and mistakenly tainted. Now I had to accept that he was part of a cover-up at the very least and that he had caused a death at the worst. Everything and everyone in this case had been turned upside down.

Finally I dialed Herb Fallon's office number. He didn't answer so I tried him at home. His wife answered and got him to the phone.

“Hiya, Chris. Got something?”

“More confusion,” I said. “I don't know if you can help on this, but Marty McHugh told me last week when we had lunch that he had been accused of plagiarism, and it kept him from graduating with his class. Is there any way you could check on who the professor was, and what Marty allegedly did to earn that accusation?”

“Sounds more like arts than sciences. I'll check his classes and see if the professors are still around. This was almost twenty years ago, so I doubt he picked up anything off the Internet.”

“He didn't. He said he was charged with copying someone's paper, or part of it, when in fact it was the other way around. He tooka course over the summer and got his degree in the fall, but it's obvious he neither forgave nor forgot.”

“What does this have to do with Heinz's death?”

“Probably nothing. I'm trying to get a handle on McHugh.”

“I'll get right on it.”

Since I had begun to doubt the veracity of everyone on that corridor except the ones who could tell me nothing, I wondered whether Fallon would actually look into the alleged plagiarism. It had gone through my mind that if McHugh was lying about when the event tookplace, perhaps his gripe was with Heinz, and that could be my sought-after motive for murder. Marty had said the event had taken place in his last semester, which was why his graduation had been held up. At this point, I was skeptical of everything he had told me.

I did some necessary shopping, returning home in time for lunch and a look at the Times. Jack checked in, and I told him I had sent Herb on another mission.

“It's getting dangerous to talk to you,” he said.

“I don't know where else to go,” I admitted.

Nor did he.

Later in the day Herb called back.

“Got something for you,” he said. “I went through the history and English professors on McHugh's transcript and called all the ones who are still here. The ones from his senior year claimed to know nothing about any plagiarism involving him. So I went backthrough the years and I actually found a lit professor from a course McHugh tookin his sophomore year who said he remembered something.”

I started feeling tingly. “McHugh was accused of plagiarism in his sophomore year?”

“Not exactly.”

I laughed. “Herb, you're not making this easy for me.”

“What I mean is, something happened. I talked to the professor who taught the lit class Marty took, and he refused to tell me what it was all about. When I explained that you were looking into Heinz Gruner's death, he agreed to talk to you.”

“That's sounding better.”

Herb dictated the number and told me to call at five eastern time. The professor would speak to me from his office. I thanked Herb, feeling better about our relationship although I knew I had little reason to. As always, he promised to keep in touch.

After Eddie came home and had drunk his milk and eaten cookies, I checked with Jack and then called my friend Arnold Gold at his law office.

“Chrissy,” he said jubilantly. “Haven't heard from you for a while. Looking for word processing work?”

“Not at the moment. I want to invite you both for Sunday afternoon. We haven't seen you for so long and the weather is lovely.”

“Let me check out our busy schedule. Let's see, Sunday. Looks open to me. I'll say yes unless Harriet has something else on the calendar that I don't know about.”

“Wonderful. Come anytime after twelve—the earlier,
the better. The lieutenant will do the cooking so I promise you a great meal.”

He laughed. “Haven't been disappointed yet. We'll see you Sunday.”

I'd met Arnold while I was looking into a forty-year-old murder soon after I was released from my vows, and he, his wife, and I have become fast friends. That I married a cop who'd studied law only strengthened the bond.

I went outside, and Eddie and I weeded the garden. I did a little hoeing besides, turning over the brown earth that I love. The smell alone intoxicates me.

At five I went inside and dialed the number for Professor Addison at Rimson College. He answered on the first ring: “Addison.”

“Professor Addison, this is Christine Bennett. I talked to Herb Fallon earlier today—”

“Yes, of course. He tells me you're looking into the untimely death of a onetime student here at Rimson.”

I gave him a few details, listening to his periodic “uhhuhs” as I laid out the story.

“Well, that's quite interesting about Mr. McHugh. If he was charged with plagiarism in his senior year, it wasn't by me. He was in only one of my classes, English literature as I recall, and that was definitely not in his senior year. I had no part in his not graduating with his class, if that, in fact, is true.”

“I don't know whether it's true,” I said. “It's what he told me. I found the story of his alleged plagiarism quite moving and I felt sorry for him. He said that he eventually ran into the person from whom he was supposed to have lifted material—but that in fact it had happened in reverse—and got him to admit that he had stolen from Marty.”

“I know nothing about that. It's possible that it's true. I did insist that Mr. McHugh take another English course to clear his name. He did that the following year.”

“Professor Addision, I really need to know who the other party in this affair was.”

“I'm not sure that I should divulge that, Ms. Bennett.”

“Sir, I am trying to find out how Heinz Gruner died. I am quite sure that someone on his dorm corridor that year was responsible.”

“Well, let me not shilly-shally. I checked my class records an hour ago—I keep all of them forever, to my wife's dismay—and I have the name.”

I closed my eyes, waiting to hear him say Heinz Gruner.

“The person he plagiarized—or the other way around, if you will—was a young man named Steven Millman.”

“Steve Millman,” I echoed. “I must say that's a surprise.”

“Surprise or not, that's who it was. Is there anything else I can tell you?”

I tried to think quickly. “Was Heinz Gruner ever a student of yours?”

“Not that year and, let me see, not the year before.”

“Those are the only possible years,” I said. “He died at the end of that semester.”

“I do recall that.”

“Well, thank you very much. You've been very helpful.” I hung up feeling almost dizzy. My hope of finding a motive for the death of my old acquaintance had evaporated. What on earth had happened on that mountain almost twenty years before?

I took Saturday off from actively pursuing the case, although Jack and I talked about it when we had the opportunity. There were many preparations to be made for our guests and Jack and I discussed the menu, which I had to admit was more enjoyable than thinking about that unfortunate death.

Since it was warm, we decided to barbecue, and Jack said we should spring for filet mignon, which Prince's had on sale just for the weekend. The price still nearly knocked me off my feet but I grabbed a package and dashed down a nearby aisle before I had second thoughts.

At home we scrubbed the patio table and chairs till they gleamed, and then Jack did all the preparation that could be accomplished a day in advance so that he would have as little as possible to do when we returned from church on Sunday.

It was a hectic but relaxing day, at least for my overworked mind. When we were finally alone in the evening, I told Jack about my conversation with Professor Addison the day before.

“Well, that's unexpected,” he said. “Maybe they weren't after Heinz.”

“I'm afraid Heinz may have been implicated in the plot, though.”

“Sure puts a different face on things. But what points to his having a part in an attempted murder?”

“Just the fact that he wasn't the intended victim but he was there.”

“You still haven't convinced me that this wasn't a terrible accident rather than a homicide. Three guys on a mountain, one of them slips and falls, two of them run like scared rabbits—”

“And drive away with Heinz's suitcases, which they loot.”

“But then the crimes, if you want to call them that, are failure to report an accident and stealing. That doesn't add up to murder.”

He was right, and I had no answer for him. Either something was missing or the ethics of those young men were well below what passed for normal—albeit somewhere above criminal.

I thought later in the evening of Don Shiller's quote that there was a family relationship between Steve and Heinz. That was still as puzzling to me as it had been when he read it to me from the letter. Enough, I thought. Think about tomorrow and your company.

Arnold and Harriet arrived at twelve thirty. We made ourselves comfortable in the family room, which was well cooled, and Harriet delivered a couple of small gifts to Eddie. One of them was a toy that a friend of his had just been given, and he jumped up and down to see it. After we had exchanged family information, Arnold asked us what we were up to. Jack glanced at me briefly and told our guests that I was looking into a twenty-year-old unexplained death, and we were off and running.