The Cinco de Mayo Murder

by Lee Harris

  “I like to walk when I can. Just leave the chair. Someone will come for it.”

  “I'll see you next week, Mrs. Gruner.” “Yes. I will rest over the weekend.”

  I was not heartened by our meeting. If the mention of K a couple of days before had done all this to her—kept her from sleeping, made her listless—he had to be very important in the life of her family. And it seemed that our former relationship had ended. We could no longer talk about the subject that had brought us together. We would have to limit our subject matter to the weather and perhaps gossip.

  Saddened, I drove home. It was noon and I wanted to call Jereth Phillips in California.

  Except for him and Steve Millman, I had now spoken to every man on Heinz's corridor. Everyone had denied having gone to Arizona that year. I pulled out a piece of paper and grabbed a pencil. Liz Clark had said that Steve “could have mentioned” that he was going to hike in Arizona.

  Prof. Herb Fallon had gone home when his exams were over. He had heard about Heinz's death later in the summer.

  Marty McHugh had gone home. He was working to find Steve Millman by calling people who might know where he was. Was it possible that he already knew where Steve was and would come back to me with an address and phone number that he presumably elicited from someone on my list, but which he'd had all along?

  Barry Woodson, the lawyer, knew nothing of Heinz's trip to Arizona.

  Andrew Franklin from Minnesota also knew nothing. Arthur Howell, Steve's roommate, claimed to have been the last man out of the dorm, thus alibiing himself, although there were no witnesses to back him up.

  I picked up the phone and dialed the number Dean Hershey had given me for Jereth Phillips.

  “Phillips,” a voice said on the first ring.

  “Mr. Phillips, my name is Christine Bennett.” I went on with my practiced intro. “Do you recall the students on your corridor that year?” I ended.

  “Most of them, yeah. I certainly remember Heinz Gruner and Herb Fallon. Heinz is the one who died.”

  “Yes, just after the spring semester. He flew to Arizona to do some hiking. Do you recall that?”

  “I think I heard them talking about that.”

  “Who else talked about it?”

  “What's his name, Millman, the guy from Phoenix. They were going down together.”

  “They were? I didn't know anyone went with Heinz.”

  “Millman went. He lived down there. He said he could show Heinz some good places to hike.”

  “Did you get the feeling then that they were going to hike together?”

  “That's what it sounded like. I wasn't part of the trip so I just heard bits and pieces. But I think they left together.”

  “So you were still in the dorm when they took off?”

  “I probably had another exam or two. It's a long time ago. I can't be sure.”

  “Did anyone else go with them?”

  “I couldn't tell you.”

  “When did you hear about Heinz's accident?”

  “Hmm.” He hummed something tuneless. “Couldn't tell you. I'm pretty sure I knew before I got back to Rimson in the fall. Maybe Herb called. Yeah, I think he did.”

  “Herb Fallon?”

  “That's the one. He's on the faculty at Rimson now. You could give him a call there.”

  We finished our conversation soon after. I had the feeling that this man was telling me the whole truth. Maybe it was because he had implicated Steve Millman, which no one else had done. But if Heinz and Millman had gone to the airport together, then Andrew Franklin's story of helping Heinz downstairs with his luggage and depositing him in an empty taxi was beginning to fray. Something wasn't right. If Millman and his luggage were already in the taxi, Franklin would have seen either the person or his luggage, or both.

  I set aside the papers, made some lunch, and ate it with the Times at my elbow. I had completed the first round of phone calls and had no idea whether there would be another round. Asking these men similar questions would surely elicit similar answers. But I had new information, tentative information from Liz Clark and certain information from Jereth Phillips that Steve Millman had gone to Arizona with Heinz—which might put Millman on Picacho Peak with Heinz a day later.

  I put a red asterisk next to Jereth Phillips's name. I was sure he was telling me the truth.

  I was about to call Herb Fallon with my new piece of information when the phone rang. It was the mother of Terry, one of Eddie's friends. She could not pick him up today. Could I bring him to my home, and she would drop by between four and five? She'd let the school know.

  I was rather pleased at the opportunity to repay what I considered a motherly debt. Eddie visited his friends after school more than they visited him at our house. One of them had a pool, which made his house much more inviting. I gathered the papers from the Heinz Gruner case, put them on the dining room table, and reverted to my other persona.

  * * *

  Saturday is father-and-son day. I generally sleep a little later than usual and come downstairs to muffins, occasionally freshly baked, and whatever else Jack wants to scrape up for breakfast. When we finished eating, Jack and Eddie took off for the hardware store. I think Eddie will grow up believing that there is no life on Saturday without a visit to some kind of hardware store. Today they intended to drop by a garden supply store as well. Our lawn needed some greening up and our hose needed a new washer. They would take care of everything.

  I was cleaning up the kitchen when the phone rang.

  “Mrs. Brooks?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Dr. Farley at Hillside Village.”

  “Yes, good morning.”

  “I'm afraid I have bad news for you.”

  I felt my heart tighten. “What happened?”

  “Mrs. Gruner died in her sleep.”

  “Oh no.” I sat down, feeling panicky. “How?”

  “It looks as though she may have had another stroke. I don't think she was in pain. Yours is the only name I have as a friend. Her family is gone, as you know, and whatever friends she had outside Hillside Village, she never put them on the list of people to be informed.”

  “I'm so sorry to hear it. Is there anything I can do? What will happen to her?”

  “She left instructions. She'll be buried next to her husband and son.”

  I felt tearful. I held the phone away and tried to overcome the tightening of my throat.

  “Mrs. Brooks?”

  “Yes. I'm sorry. It's just such a shock. She seemed to be doing so well.”

  “She appreciated your visits, you know. Whatever that little problem was a few days ago, I think you worked it out successfully. This was something we always knew might happen.”

  “What will you do with her things?”

  “There isn't much, and there are no heirs. Her clothes will be given away. I think she had a watch and a few pieces of jewelry. If there's something you'd like to have—”

  “There's nothing, thank you. I just—” My mind had begun functioning again. “I'd like to see her collection of papers before you throw them out.”

  “That won't be a problem. Why don't you drop over at your convenience? The room is empty and you can go through them alone.”

  I told him I would do that. I hung up and remained sitting on my chair, thinking of the poor woman whose life had ended as quietly as she had lived it. The tragedy was that she had lost her family and renounced her friends. I hoped I had convinced her that her son had not committed suicide. That was the information she had been living for.

  I left a note for Jack on the kitchen counter. My appetite had deserted me, and the thought of lunch held no appeal.

  Dr. Farley was still at Hillside Village when I got there. He had doffed the white coat and was preparing to leave. I assumed he had been called when Mrs. Gruner's body had been discovered. We shook hands and he said a few nice words, then sent me up to Mrs. Gruner's room with an aide who unlocked the door and left.

&
nbsp; The bed had been stripped. Clothes hung in the closet, shoes lay on the floor, and her worn black leather handbag rested on top of the dresser. I closed the door and sat down on the guest chair with the pocketbook. Inside was a wallet with some cash in it, a single credit card, insurance cards including Medicare, and several old photos that I took to be of her, her husband, and her young son. Even as a child, Heinz's face was recognizable. She had been a plain woman, but her hair had been dark and combed attractively, her dress fit her well, and her smile lit up her face.

  Tissues, keys, cough drops, and a small address book took up most of the rest of the space. I pulled out the address book and flipped to K. There were listings for Alfred Koch, Maria Kramer, and Paul Kristen. All had addresses and phone numbers. The address for Maria Kramer was in Germany. I put the book in my bag and went to the closet where I remembered the carton of letters was.

  Moving the carton to the bed, I saw that the letters were divided and rubber-banded. The pack that I had looked at earlier in the week contained letters from Heinz to his parents. Another group was letters from his parents to him. Obviously, he had been as sentimental as his mother, saving his parents’ missives. Mrs. Gruner must have found them among his things after he died and put them with the others. A quick look told me they were dated his last week at college.

  Next, I went through the dresser drawers. All I found were underclothes, sweaters, and stockings. But having learned from my expert husband, I emptied one of the two top drawers, pulled it all the way out, and inverted it on top of the bed. Nothing. I replaced it, refilled it, and did the same to the drawer beside it. Taped to the bottom was a small envelope.

  I pulled it off the wood and opened it. Inside was a key that looked like the key to our box in our local bank. Sure enough, a small piece of paper named the bankand the box number.

  I was in a quandary. This did not belong to me. I could imagine why Mrs. Gruner had taped it to the bottom of the drawer, probably one of the only two drawers she was strong enough to pull out and invert by herself. Worrying that someone might rummage through her dresser when she was out of the room, she kept it hidden. How she expected anyone to find it was a mystery to me.

  It occurred to me then that once a year the bank would send a bill for the box, and perhaps someone at Hillside Village would go hunting for the key. I put the key in my purse, intending to call Dr. Farley or someone else in the building to let them know of the key's existence.

  Then I returned to the carton. I wanted to go through every envelope, and that would take me a longer time than I had to spend in the room. I called down to the front desk and asked if I could take the carton home with me. I would be glad to bring it back if anyone wanted it.

  The woman who answered said she would call me back at Mrs. Gruner's number. While I waited, I looked more carefully through the closet but found nothing of interest. I even put my hand into the pockets of dresses and coats but came out with nothing more than what I might find in my own: tissues, notes to remember to buy something, gloves, a few coins.

  The woman downstairs called back and said I could have the carton. She would send a wheelchair up to the room; I could use that to get the carton downstairs. If I was ready to leave, she would have someone lock the door behind me. I said I was ready and gathered everything I was taking into the carton. When the volunteer came with the wheelchair, I piled it on and walked to the elevator.

  What I had was the consolidated memory of a family of three. That so many years, so many thoughts, so many events could be crowded into a single carton astonished and saddened me. Jack helped me carry the carton into the house and stashed it in our dining room. When I was able, meaning when I was alone, I would scan the letters, both to and from Heinz, and see if I could find a reference to K. And I would try to call the two men in the address book whose names began with that letter.

  It wasn't until Sunday afternoon, when Jack took Eddie and my cousin Gene out for a drive, that I was able to attack the contents of the carton. I remembered approximately where the letter referring to K had been located and I found it. Apparently Mrs. Gruner had not removed or destroyed it. I reread it, learning nothing new.

  I then read deeper into the past, skimming the letters for another reference to the man, but finding none. The time of these letters was already the year before Heinz died, so there would be nothing referring to his last hike.

  Finally, I took the package of letters that had been written to Heinz. His parents were not his only correspondents. I found a letter from a high school teacher whose name I recognized, apparently responding to some questions Heinz had asked him. It didn't seem relevant to my pursuit. A letter from Herb Fallon during the summer between their freshman and sophomore years described a boring but well-paying job. A postcard from Mike Borden, a name that did not ring a bell, had been sent from France. The picture was of the quay at Marseilles, a line of restaurants advertising seafood. “Get yourself over here” was the gist of the message.

  I went further back in time. The letters from his parents were not easy to read. They were written in a distinct European handwriting that required deciphering, and in the end nothing of importance to me was in them.

  And then a typewritten letter leaped out at me. The return address carried the name A. Koch, one of the names listed in Mrs. Gruner's address book. It was dated the spring of Heinz's freshman year.

  I hope you're working as hard and successfully as I know you can. Your first-semester grades were good and I expect your second-semester grades will be even better. You are certainly shining in history and I think your plan of majoring in that area is wise. Your parents tell me that you are enjoying your experience at Rimson, as you should. It's as fine a college as you will find anywhere and the faculty rivals even the best universities in the country. The smaller student body is, in my opinion, more conducive to study than the institutions with populations the size of cities.

  Feel free to call or write at any time. Keep up the good work.

  It was signed with a scribble that I interpreted as Alfred Koch. The inside address was the west side of Manhattan, giving no affiliation. It was almost certainly a residence. I resisted the urge to call him—the phone number was in the address book—as Jack and company might return at any moment. But I was convinced that this was the elusive K whom Heinz had mentioned. From the content of the letter, I had to assume he was somehow involved in Heinz's education, or at least in his choice of Rimson over other schools. This puzzled me. It was my observation that Heinz could have had his pickof schools. The tone of the letter indicated he might have wanted Harvard or Yale but that Mr. Koch had dissuaded him. Having happily attended a small institution myself, I could second that opinion.

  The door opened and feet and voices poured into the house. I went to greet my family and offer them some ice cream. K would have to wait another day.

  Monday morning, after the men had left, I made the phone call. A woman answered and asked me to wait. After a silence, a voice said, “This is Alfred Koch.”

  “Yes, good morning,” I said. “My name is Christine Bennett and I am a friend of Mrs. Hilda Gruner.”

  “Hilda, yes. Has something happened?”

  “I'm sorry to tell you she died of a stroke over the weekend.”

  He expressed his surprise and sympathy. He had spoken to her several months before and had heard nothing more.

  “Mr. Koch, I was a classmate of Heinz Gruner in high school. I've been looking into the circumstances of his death almost twenty years ago.”

  “It was very tragic, Miss Bennett. He was young and had a promising life ahead of him. He died of an apparent fall in the Southwest. His parents’ lives were shattered. His father died a year or so later. Hilda had a stroke. I'm sure you know the story.”

  “I do, and I've been learning that not all of the story is factual.”

  “I don't know what you mean by that.”

  “He was hiking with someone, perhaps a friend from Rimson College, a per
son who never reported the accident.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I've been speaking to the people who found his body and to the students who lived on his corridor at Rimson that year.”

  “What is your interest in this, Miss Bennett?”

  “Just a search for the truth. At first, I hoped to establish that Heinz had not committed suicide. Then—”

  “It was clearly an accident,” Koch interrupted. “What would make you think it was otherwise?” He sounded like a lawyer cross-examining a reluctant witness.

  “Several things,” I retorted. “But I called you to ask you what your relationship was with Heinz.”

  That stopped him for a few seconds. “Why do you want to know that?”

  “Because he mentioned you in a letter to his parents, and one of his friends saw you with him on campus.”

  “My relationship with Heinz Gruner had nothing to do with his death. It had to do with his life.”

  Very cute, I thought. “Still, it's a dangling fact. Since all the participants are now dead, I would hope you could tell me and let me be the judge of its relevance.”

  Another silence. “I have no obligation to you, Miss Bennett.”

  “That's true. But I have an obligation to learn the full story of the end of Heinz Gruner's life. I hope you'll help me do that.”

  “I have to think about it.”

  “If you'd like the phone number of the residence where Mrs. Gruner lived and died, I can give it to you.”

  “I have it, thank you. Give me yours, if I decide to get back to you.”

  I dictated the number. He took it and ended the conversation.

  I was annoyed. He was right that he had no obligation to tell me anything, but I felt he could have been more forthcoming. I went upstairs to the computer and searched for his name. I had not done this before, but Jack had listed the websites that would be helpful. I found Alfred Koch on the first try. He was a professor of European history at Columbia University, which was a brisk walk or a short bus or subway ride north of where he lived. He was apparently an immigrant from Germany, but at an early age. His English had no hint of an accent. I assumed that his ties to the Gruners might go back to their native country.