The Cinco de Mayo Murder

by Lee Harris

I leaned back to consider this. “Steve Millman was responsible for Heinz Gruner's death and Marty McHugh saw what happened and didn't report it to the authorities. So we have a conspiracy of silence. I still don't see what Marty is worried about. Steve is hardly going to tell me the truth about what happened. He'll be in much worse trouble than Marty.”

  “I think ‘conspiracy’ is the important word in all this. We may not yet know everything that happened on the trail, Chris.”

  “Let's go back to what you said a minute ago, that Marty McHugh was a third man on the mountain. You know, that could explain a couple of things, Joseph. Maybe Heinz did get into an empty taxi, because Marty and Steve had left earlier in their own taxi. The other thing is, when I met Marty, he said he'd never been to Arizona but he didn't like it; it had too much blue sky and dry heat and you had to carry water with you so you wouldn't dehydrate. He was talking about when he was there.”

  “I think you're right, Chris. He slipped up. And if he and Steve took a taxi together, it means that the man from Minneapolis told you the truth. It was Steve, the possible killer, and Mr. McHugh who lied to cover each other.”

  The conspiracy, I thought. “Then that would mean that two young men were guests at the Millmans’ that night. And all three of them drove to Picacho Peak the next day. And Marty McHugh, who was apparently the most helpful person I spoke to, and who treated me to an extravagant lunch, has turned out to be the biggest liar.” My frustration was audible.

  “Don't make any firm determinations about who has lied and who has told you the truth. All we're doing here is tossing around some hypotheses. But I agree with you that Mr. McHugh's insistence on being on the line with Steve Millman is cause for suspicion.”

  I nodded, still not sure. “Let's take a look at the professor you've been speaking to, the historian from Rimson.”

  “Herb Fallon. He was very helpful and enthusiastic when we began to talk, but he hasn't gotten back to me lately.” I told her I had called him myself two days before, and he had been surprised that I'd spoken to Steve Millman. “Also,” I said, “his report of what Mrs. Millman told him differs from what she told me. She told him she didn't know if she could reach her son.”

  “She allegedly told him,” Joseph corrected me.

  “He really went out of his way for me, Joseph. He checked up on alumni who had never changed their addresses with the college, gave me addresses I didn't have. He found Marty McHugh for me.”

  “Let's keep that in mind.”

  “You're becoming as skeptical as my husband.”

  “Your husband is in a business that requires healthy skepticism. And you've said yourself, one or more of these men have lied to you. You have to be careful what you say to them until you know which category each one belongs to.”

  “I'm afraid you're right. I'm going to talk to an old high school friend of Heinz's tonight. He's not part of the Rimson crowd, so perhaps he's more believable.”

  “I think you're going to figure this out, Chris. The fact that Steve Millman actually agreed to talk to you is very encouraging. But you're right, there is clearly a conspiracy here. We don't know how many men are part of it or what their motives are, but they want to keep you and the law from finding out what happened on that trail.”

  “I agree. I just can't figure out why anyone would want to hurt Heinz Gruner.”

  “Maybe they didn't, Chris.”

  I looked at her, but her face showed nothing. That was her message to me.

  I stopped at Elsie's house and picked up Eddie, staying for a cup of tea before we went home. Elsie has enabled me to have a life outside of motherhood without worry. She's as good as a grandmother, and Eddie is still happy to visit her. I suppose that will change one day, but I try not to think about it. On this day he was especially happy, carrying a bag of Elsie's cookies out to the car and discovering that a second bag awaited him.

  “Did Sister Dolores make these for me?”

  “She sure did, but she made them for Daddy, too, so don't go eating them all up.”

  “I think Daddy is too old to eat cookies,” my son said.

  I laughed. “Eddie, that's a terrible thing to say.”

  “Then why are you laughing?” “Good question. Because what you said tickled me. Just remember, no man is ever too old for cookies.”

  “OK. Can I try just one now?”

  “Sure. Please don't get crumbs in the car.”

  “I'll be careful.” He opened the bag and pulled out a cookie fit for a king. It was gone by the time we turned into the driveway.

  Don Shiller called before I brewed our after-dinner coffee. “I found Heinz's letters,” he said, “and some of them seem relevant to what you want to know. Here's one.” He quoted from the letter:

  My parents have decided to give me a trip as a birthday present. I think they expected me to go to Europe but I'm not ready for that. I've always wanted to hike in the Southwest and if I can manage, I can be out of here on May fourth and on some great trail on the fifth—which, I'm sure you remember, is Cinco de Mayo: the day General Zaragoza was victorious at the battle of Puebla in 1862 after the execution of Maximilian. Imagine, we might have had a French country south of the border.

  “I have another one,” Don went on, and I heard him unfolding paper.

  One of the guys on my corridor lives in Phoenix and he says I can stay at his house while I'm hiking. He doesn't have his own car but his parents can double up while I'm there and we'll use his mother's. He says it's only about an hour's drive to Picacho Peak, which is on the way to Tucson and a good place to hike. I'm getting pretty excited about this. I wish you were joining me.

  “He goes on to talk about a course he's taking. There's one more.”

  A really crazy coincidence. This guy from Phoenix has something like a family connection to me. He doesn't know it, but I realized it from something he said. He's a weird guy but I don't want to bore you.

  “Don,” I said, “could you read that again about the family connection?”

  He located it and read it slowly while I took down as much of it as I could manage. “Is that it? He doesn't elaborate anywhere on that family business?”

  “No. I read through all the letters—there aren't many— and that's all he says about that. I never found out any more about it.”

  I let it go for the moment. “And that's it?”

  “I'm afraid so. The one I just read you is the last letter he ever wrote me.”

  “Don, does he mention the name Alfred Koch in any of the letters?”

  “No. He doesn't mention many names at all. It's usually this guy and that guy. The only name he ever mentions is someone he refers to as ‘my friend Herb Fallon.’”

  “I've spoken to him several times and I did have the feeling that they were friends. But Herb says he didn't hear about Heinz's death until sometime in the summer. When did you hear?”

  “Maybe a week after it happened. I was still away at school—Rimson let out early—and my mother called me. I knew when I heard her voice that something terrible had happened. She didn't approve of long-distance calls. She said there was a notice in the local paper and she had called Mrs. Gruner. She went to the funeral. I couldn't leave school. It was finals time.” He still felt bad about that. His voice was full of remorse.

  “There was nothing you could do,” I said, hoping to give him small comfort. “So besides Herb Fallon, no one else's name is mentioned?”

  “Not that I saw. I'll read the letters over later and if I find any names, I'll call you. He never even mentions the name of this guy who lived in Phoenix.”

  “What I'm wondering is whether he says anywhere that anyone else was going to Arizona besides the guy from Phoenix?”

  “I don't think so, but I'll keep my eye open for a name.”

  “Thank you, Don. You've really been very helpful.”

  I made the coffee when I got off the phone. Jack came into the kitchen, eyeing the plate of cookies and giving me a sly smile.
“I heard the end of your conversation. You think there was another person on that hike?”

  “Joseph suggested it, and it answers some questions. This man Marty McHugh—”

  “Who took you to an expensive lunch.”

  I grinned at him. “One and the same. He was on the line when I talked to Steve Millman the other day. Joseph's theory—or hypothesis—is that McHugh went along for the hike and saw what happened, but didn't report it. I've asked him if I can talk to Steve without him on the line. I haven't heard back.”

  “You won't.”

  “Because he has something to gain by hearing the conversation. Or something to lose by not hearing it. Joseph suggested that Steve Millman may have been instrumental in Heinz's death, and Martin McHugh may have seen what happened.”

  “And wants to keep his involvement a secret. It's a good theory.”

  “It also explains an inconsistency.” I told him about the man who swore he had put Heinz in an empty taxi and watched him drive away, while Steve claimed to have been in the taxi and gone to the airport with Heinz.

  “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 taugh
t 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.”