The Cinco de Mayo Murder Read online

  He was there and curious about my conversation with Martin McHugh. “Lunch at a club,” he said. “I knew I was in the wrong profession.”

  “There's more, Herb. I found something in one of Heinz's letters that I think ties in with your seeing him with a mysterious stranger.” I recited the two lines from memory.

  “Letters?” he said. “You found his letters?”

  I explained.

  “You're really going great guns, Chris. I'll bet that's the guy I saw him with. It was winter, as I remember. I don't know anyone at Rimson with a K.”

  “I've been calling him Mr. Kafka.”

  “From the sound of it, you'll have as much trouble finding out who he was as the poor guy in Kafka's book.”

  I told him about Mrs. Gruner's reaction.

  “Very interesting. She knows about him and wants to keep him a secret. Looks like you've stumbled on something important.”

  “But I don't know where to go with it. Could this man have been a professor emeritus?”

  “I'll look at the records but I'm not optimistic.”

  “Were there any organizations at Rimson that might have invited an outside speaker?” It had just occurred to me that speakers popped up on college campuses all the time.

  “Yes, there are. You may have hit on something. What's today? Wednesday,” he said, answering his own question. “I have some free time tomorrow morning. Let me see if I can scrape up some old information. We have frequent speakers, as well as musical performers, sometimes a dance troupe. Your Mr. K could have been any of those. Good thinking. I'll call you when I've finished my digging.”

  I reminded him I was going into the city to have lunch with Martin McHugh, so I might not be back before three. He asked me to save him a menu.

  “That's a pretty fancy place to have lunch,” Jack said when I told him.

  “Which makes me nervous, as I'm sure you can understand. I suppose I should wear my black suit and look like a New York woman taking time from her busy day at the office to entertain a client.”

  Jack thought that was pretty funny. “Good thing you have a black suit. They might not let you in.”

  “Stop scaring me. Want to hear Mel's scenarios for who this Mr. K might be?”

  “I'm listening.”

  I went through them, making him laugh louder at each suggestion. I had actually taken them quite seriously. Mrs. Gruner's reaction to my discovery of those two lines in Heinz's letter had been so unexpected and irrational that I was willing to believe almost anything about Mr. K.

  “Well, she's got a good imagination. Maybe this McHugh guy will clue you in on something more substantial. I like your idea, by the way, that K was a speaker or a musician. It fits with the school.”

  “And it's not a stretch to imagine that K knew the Gruners.”

  “Well, the way you're going, you'll probably have it all worked out by the weekend.”

  Martin McHugh had given me two parking garage options: one right near the club, the other about two blocks away. Needless to say, the farther one was less expensive, and that's the one I headed toward. I had allotted my time well and arrived inside the club building six minutes before our meeting time. I smoothed my hair, which is most of what I do to make myself look presentable, then glanced at the handful of people standing around the lobby, obviously waiting, as I was, to meet someone.

  From where I stood, I could see down the inside halfdozen stairs to the outer doors. A man pushed a door, clambered up the stairs, and pushed open an inner door near where I stood. He stopped and surveyed the lobby area, turning slowly, finally fixing his eyes on me. “Miss Bennett?”

  “Mr. McHugh?”

  He held out his hand. “Glad to meet you. Let's go upstairs.”

  The club was on the top floor. We took an express elevator, paused at the receptionist's desk only long enough for Mr. McHugh to wave and smile, then walked inside the dining area. We were shown to a table near a window with a view of the Empire State Building. I had never before had the sensation of sitting on top of the world.

  “I always get the buffet,” he said as the menus were handed to us. “But you're welcome to order off the menu. I like variety. What about you?”

  “I like it, too. I'll join you.”

  “Let's go.”

  We walked to a smaller, viewless room and filled our plates with delicous-looking salads. The hot dishes, which we would come back for, sounded wonderful. I was sorry the invitation hadn't included Jack, who has the better palate and the greater capacity.

  Back at our table, Martin McHugh said, “So what's the story you're looking for?”

  I gave him a briefing.

  “That was a nice year,” he said nostalgically. “A good crowd on the corridor. No obvious crackpots or shirkers. I can't tell you I was Heinz's best friend because I wasn't, but he was a good guy: quiet, studious, a nice person to have around. When I heard about the accident, it threw me for a loop.”

  “Before we talk about that, I wonder if you'd mind telling me why you've never had anything to do with Rimson since you graduated. Most of the other men who lived on that corridor have kept in touch with the college, gone back for reunions, updated their addresses. You didn't.”

  “There was a reason. Your question brings back the other part of the Rimson experience, the negative. Happened my senior year. I was all set to graduate, had a good record, one or two misses but nothing terrible, when an English teacher called me in and accused me of plagiarizing a paper I had written. I assume you know how serious a charge that is.”

  “I do.”

  “He said another student's paper had almost identical language in some parts, had the same factual error that I made somewhere, and it was clear I had copied from him.”

  “Or he from you.”

  “He didn't put it that way, but yes, you're right. That was the other alternative. I was told I wouldn't graduate.”

  “How terrible,” I said spontaneously. “What did you do?”

  “I worked hard not to go to pieces. The professor wouldn't even entertain the possibility that the other guy stole from me, which is what I was sure had happened. Either that or the most unlikely coincidence in the history of the college had occurred. Bottom line, I didn't graduate. We were a less litigious society at that time and my parents, who believed me, didn't hire a lawyer and make threats. We just talked to a dean, who resolved the problem by allowing me to take another English course elsewhere. When I finished it—with an A, by the way—they sent me my diploma.”

  “What an ordeal,” I said. “And to have such a weight hanging over you all these years.”

  “Well, there's a silver lining, if you can call it that. Several years ago at a conference, I ran into the guy I was supposed to have cribbed from. I cornered him and got him to confess that he'd read the draft of my paper while I was out of my room. I had a tape recorder in my pocket to tape some of the speakers, and I was smart enough to record the conversation, although the quality was pretty awful. I sent it to the English professor, who agreed to reinstate my grade for that semester. Nothing was ever done to the son of a bitch who actually plagiarized.”

  “Or to the professor, I bet.”

  “He still thinks he's God.” McHugh buttered a roll and took a bite. A waiter came and dropped off our wine. “Well, here's to solving mysteries.” McHugh touched his glass to mine. “So now you know why I don't write checks to my alma mater. I'll tell you, if anyone ever did that to my son, I'd put the college out of business.”

  I could believe it from the passion in his voice. “I'm glad you were tough enough to survive.”

  “But you didn't come here to talk about my problems. What's up with Heinz Gruner?”

  I told him.

  “So you're looking for information on that trip he took to Arizona.”

  “And anyone who might have gone with him or met him there.”

  “Well, it wasn't me. I've never been to Arizona. Took a vacation in Florida last year a
nd I go to California frequently, but never Arizona.”

  “Do you remember any discussion about his trip?”

  “I couldn't have dredged it up without your background stuff, but now that I think about it, I remember hearing him say he was going. I think his parents were sending him as a birthday present or something. It isn't the kind of place that appeals to me, all that dry heat and boring blue sky, carrying water everywhere you go so you don't dehydrate. I'd rather have the changes of season here in New York.”

  “Wasn't there someone on that corridor from Arizona?”

  “Steven Millman. Right. I don't remember which city—”

  “Phoenix. That's where Heinz flew to.”

  “I assume you've spoken to him.”

  “Steven Millman practically doesn't exist, Mr. McHugh.”

  “Call me Marty, OK? In my business, the only people who call me mister work for people who work for me.”

  “I'm Chris, and no one works for me.”

  “Sounds like a good life. Why doesn't he exist?”

  “I wish I knew. The last address on record is his parents’ when he was at Rimson. He dropped out of the college the summer that Heinz died.”

  Marty McHugh looked at me as though I had said something intriguing. “Do tell. And no one answers his phone?”

  “His mother, but she says she isn't sure if she can find him.”

  “Son of a bitch.” He drank some more wine and looked out the window. We had a lovely day, a blue, almost cloudless sky, the sun hitting the Hudson River in a blinding splash of light. “I'll find him for you. I'll need a couple of days.”

  His statement stunned me. “How will you do that?”

  He gave me a smile. “I have my ways. Ever hear of six degrees of separation? I have a Rolodex that connects me to the whole world. I'll get you Steve Millman.”

  “He may have changed his name,” I said.

  “Just adds to the fun.”

  “You seem to be an amazing man,” I said.

  “Seem to be? When I hand you Steve Millman on a silver platter, you'll know how amazing I am.”

  I laughed. I hadn't known what to expect from this man, but being entertained was not high on the list.

  “So your theory is that Millman met Heinz in Arizona, they went hiking and Heinz fell, or—” He stopped. “Or what?”

  “That's what I'd like to know. It may have been a simple accident, but whoever was with him—and I'm convinced someone was with him—didn't report the fall, stole some of his possessions, and sent one of the two suitcases back to the Gruners.”

  “I never liked Millman,” Marty McHugh said.

  “Why?”

  “Snotty bastard. Know-it-all. You wouldn't have liked him, either.” Marty pulled a leather agenda out of an inside jacket pocket and made a note with one of those big fat fancy black fountain pens.

  “What did you think of Herb Fallon?” I asked. I wasn't looking for negative comments. I just wanted to know where his opinion fell regarding the person on the corridor with whom I'd had the most dealings.

  “Nice guy. Honest. Good sense of humor.” He grinned. “Like me.”

  “Thank you for the self-analysis.” I was enjoying the conversation even more than the food.

  We returned to the smaller room to select our hot dishes. From the repartee, it was clear that Martin McHugh was a regular here. The goodwill of the staff spilled over onto me, and I was coaxed into sampling far more than I had intended.

  Back at our window table, I said, “I learned something yesterday that Heinz's mother found deeply upsetting.” I went on to describe the cache of letters and quoted the lines about K.

  “Interesting. And she wouldn't talk about it?”

  “She practically threw me out of her room. She became frantic. Whoever this K person was, she refused to acknowledge knowing him, but it was perfectly clear that she did.”

  “K.” He rested his chin on his hands, making grumbling sounds as he thought. “Winter, you said?”

  “Winter.”

  “I knew a kid named Ken something.”

  “I don't think this was a kid. I don't think it was someone who was regularly on campus.”

  “Or he wouldn't have written home about it. You're right. Rimson was a small enough school that in a week, you ran into everyone you knew.”

  “Someone may have seen them together. They shook hands when they said good-bye.”

  “Not what undergrads did at Rimson. You shook hands with a visitor, an older person, maybe with your father if you had that kind of relationship. K. You're not leaving all that food over?”

  “It's a lot to eat, Marty.”

  “The chef'll be upset.” He smiled. “They're saving berries and whipped cream for us.”

  “Oh my.” I took another bite. It really was a shame to leave anything so good uneaten. “I don't suppose that Rolodex of yours has a card for Mr. K?”

  “Not yet. But hey, we're just beginning.”

  We walked to Fifth Avenue together when the glorious meal had ended. There Marty turned north and I continued one long block to my garage. I drove home wondering whether his promises were bravado or if he really intended to make an effort to find Steve Millman. I didn't think there was any chance he could locate K. But if he was in touch with enough former classmates, Millman might surface.

  I thought about the plagiarism charge he had endured. In my teaching during the years since I'd left St. Stephen's Convent, I'd encountered one serious case. It had happened in my poetry class, the class I taught before my current one. The style of writing had been so blatant, it had nearly slapped me in the face. The student was a girl who previously had barely been able to put together a complete sentence. Suddenly she was writing sentences that flowed with vocabulary I could not believe were part of her language: deft comparisons, clever figures of speech, even cleverer arguments to prove her point. No one else in the class had a paper in any way resembling hers, and when I had a private conversation with her, she broke down in tears.

  I wondered what kind of impression Martin McHugh had made on the professor who charged him but not the real offender. Considering that he belonged to an expensive club and used its facilities regularly, I thought Rimson had lost a potentially generous donor.

  There were no messages. I had been hoping that Mrs. Gruner would call to reopen our acquaintance. Who on earth could Mr. Kafka have been that she would react so stunningly? I changed from my black suit to my everyday casual clothes and went to pick Eddie up at his after-school activity. He was part of a group of children who were painting a backdrop for a forthcoming school play. From the look of his hands, I could see he had indulged freely in the paint.

  “Are your hands dry?” I asked after we had kissed.

  “I washed them with soap. The teacher made us. And I dried them, too.” He climbed into his seat and got belted in.

  “That's some project you're working on, Eddie.”

  “It's fun. Everybody has a color. Mine is dark blue.”

  His hands indicated more than one color. “Where did the red come from?”

  “I helped Sandy. She couldn't reach high enough.”

  “That was very nice of you. But I think you'll have to wash again when we get home.”

  “OK,” my son said breezily. It was all part of a day's work.

  After the scrub-down, Eddie went to do his homework and I went back to my list of Rimson students. Andrew Franklin, the Minneapolis lawyer, had suggested I call Arthur Howell, who had been Steven Millman's roommate. I thought that was a good place to continue my search. If anyone would know what a young man was doing on his vacation, it would be his roommate.

  Arthur Howell answered his own phone, and I gave him a brief explanation of who I was. Then I said, “I wonder if you have a current address and phone number for your former roommate, Steven Millman.”

  There were several seconds of silence. Then, “Is this a joke?”

  “Excuse me?” I looked at my list
. “Is this Arthur Howell?”

  “It is and you're the second person to call me with that question this afternoon.”

  So Martin McHugh had decided to call the obvious person. “I had lunch with Martin McHugh today,” I explained. “He said he would try to find Steve Millman. I didn't know he had decided to call you. I'm sorry if I've bothered you.”

  “Just a surprise to hear that name twice in one afternoon. I didn't mean to upset you, Miss Bennett. I'll tell you what I told Marty. Steve and I were roommates, but we were never friends. I didn't really like the guy. It was because of the room lottery that we ended up together. I had a high number, he had a low one, and we were talking one night the year before and decided to give rooming together a try. It was a mistake, but we survived it.”

  “Do you have a moment to talk about him?”

  “Sure. What can I tell you?”

  “Was he friendly with Heinz Gruner?”

  “I'm not sure Millman was friends with anyone. He was an annoying creature, at least to me. He got on my nerves; probably got on lots of people's nerves.”

  “What did he major in?” I asked.

  “History, I think.”

  “So did Heinz. So they probably knew each other from classes as well as from the dorm.”

  “A reasonable conclusion,” Arthur Howell said. “It was a small school. We all knew each other.”

  “I understand he came from Phoenix.”

  “Right. He talked about it a lot. He loved it. He said it had the best weather in the world.”

  “You know that Heinz died in a hiking accident between Phoenix and Tucson.”

  “I heard later that summer. Can you tell me specifically what it is you're looking for?”

  “I'm trying to find out who went hiking with Heinz Gruner.”

  “How do you know anyone did?”

  I went through it again, the missing suitcases and backpack, the small backpack that disappeared and reappeared, the bits of evidence I had put together.

  “Heinz was kind of a quiet guy,” Arthur Howell said. “I remember hearing him talk about wanting to go to Arizona in the spring, wanting to walk in the mountains. The feeling I got was that he went alone.”