The Cinco de Mayo Murder Page 13

  According to the listing, he was a full professor, had received numerous awards, and was the author of several scholarly books. I looked carefully through his biography and found that he had taught at Rimson College about thirty years before. So that was a connection. I wrote down his Columbia office address and phone number. I did not intend to wait until he decided to call me back. I wanted to know what his relationship with Heinz was, although I was beginning to have some ideas.

  A few minutes later I received a call from Hillside Village. Mrs. Gruner's funeral had been arranged to take place at the village on Tuesday morning at ten so that all the residents who wished to could attend. There would also be transportation to the cemetery. I thought about calling Alfred Koch backto tell him, but decided he knew how to dial as well as I.

  Instead, I called Dean Hershey at Rimson and asked for the phone number of the student who had sent Heinz the postcard from Marseilles. He put me on hold and came back with it. Michael Borden lived in Boston.

  “He's a hospital administrator,” Hershey said. “An MD. Where'd you come up with his name?”

  I told him and let him know that Mrs. Gruner had died, concluding the call. I was pleased to have this new contact. A friend who had not been part of the dorm corridor might know whom Heinz had traveled to Arizona with and might give me a name.

  I then called Dr. Farley and told him of my discovery of the key taped to the dresser drawer.

  “Thank you very much, Mrs. Brooks. I'm the executor of Mrs. Gruner's will and I might have gone nuts looking for that key. I do have a copy of her will. Have you heard about the funeral?”

  “I have and I'll be there. I can bring the key with me.”

  “Fine. And then perhaps you'll accompany me to the bank to open the box. I'd like to have a witness with me.”

  I assured him that I would be happy to do that, and we left the time open.

  The phone rang while I was making a shopping list.

  “Chris, this is Marty McHugh.”

  “Hello. This is a surprise.”

  “Why? I thought you wanted me to locate Steve Millman.”

  “Yes, but—well, what have you got?”

  “I found him.”

  “You did?”

  “Took a little doing, some phone calls, some prodding, but I've got your man.”

  I grabbed a fresh piece of paper and poised the pencil I'd been using to make my shopping list. “Go.”

  “Well, I can't give you his number. I spoke to him yesterday and he won't allow it. What we can do is the following: I'll phone him and then conference you in. You'll have to ask all your questions with me on the line.”

  “That's acceptable. When would you like to do it?”

  He read off some time periods that Steve would be available, the earliest of which was that afternoon, which made me think that Millman was out west. That would be the start of his lunch hour.

  “Three is fine for me,” I said before he could go on. “Is that OK for you?”

  “Fine. I'll call him, then call you. It may be a few minutes past the hour.”

  “I'll be here. Thank you, Marty. I really appreciate this.”

  “Happy to deliver.”

  What I was left wondering after I hung up was whether McHugh had had the number all along and had made the calls to Arthur Howell and Liz Clark—and possibly others—as show in case I checked up on him. But it didn't matter. I was going to talk to Steve Millman.

  It was just short of noon when my shopping was completed, and I thought that would be a good time to call the man who had written the postcard from Marseilles two decades before.

  “Borden,” he answered on the first ring.

  “Dr. Borden, my name is Christine Bennett. I was a classmate of Heinz Gruner in high school.”

  “Heinz! I haven't heard that name in years. Poor guy died hiking in the mountains before we graduated.”

  “I know. And I know you were his friend because he saved a postcard you sent him from Marseilles.”

  “That was a hell of a long time ago. What can I do for you?”

  I went through it briefly. “Did you know his plans for flying to Arizona that year?” I finished.

  “Oh yeah. We were good friends. We were going to room together that year but it didn't work out. I was upstairs from him. We talked about going to Arizona together but something came up. I think my cousin was getting married and the whole family was going. So I couldn't go with him.”

  “Who did go?”

  “Oh, some guy in our class from Arizona. What was his name? Steve something. I think Heinz was going to stay with Steve's family the first night and they were driving to someplace where you could hike in the mountains and it wasn't too difficult. At least, that's what I heard.”

  “Dr. Borden, were you friends with any of the people on Heinz's corridor that year?”

  “I knew a lot of them, but I wasn't friends with them.”

  “Do you know if anyone else on that corridor went to Arizona with Heinz and Steve?”

  “No idea. I think Heinz wanted to go by himself, to tell you the truth, and Steve kind of wormed his way into his plans. I don't even know if they both went on the hike. But I'm pretty sure Heinz was staying the first night with the— what's their name? Millman. He was staying with the Millmans.”

  “Do you know that Steve never went back to Rimson after that year?”

  “I heard. I figured he was really shook up by what happened.”

  “Were you ever in touch with Steve Millman after that?” I asked.

  “Nah. We weren't friends.”

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

  “You know, I called him during the summer. I wanted to know how the hiking went, and I'm not much of a letter writer. That card from France was about my limit. His father answered and told me what happened. I remember that he cried on the phone. I was shaking when I got off. I couldn't believe it.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “Just that there had been an accident, that Heinz was hiking on some mountain between Phoenix and Tucson, and he fell off the trail and down the side of the mountain and died.”

  “Did he say anything about who was with him?”

  “Nothing, and I didn't ask. What was I—nineteen years old? I'm talking to my friend's father and he's crying over the phone and I can't even comprehend what he's telling me. I didn't want to keep that conversation going.”

  “Dr. Borden, you've been very helpful. Thank you.” I gave him my name again and my phone number.

  When I finished my lunch, I called Jack and told him what I'd learned.

  “You're actually talking to him this afternoon?”

  “Three o'clock. What would you ask him?”

  “All the questions he won't answer. Was he there, was he with Heinz when the accident happened, how did it happen, why did Millman walk off with the backpack—you know the drill.”

  “I'll give it a try. Maybe after all this time, he's ready to come clean.”

  “Not if he was involved in the death. Even if they don't try him, he'll need a lawyer and it'll cost him, not just money but time. But who knows? You've cracked some tough ones before.”

  I smiled. “OK. Just wanted to keep you posted.”

  I felt excited at the prospect of the upcoming phone call. Jack was surely right that Millman would answer none of the important questions. He'd had twenty years to think about how to evade the truth and a few hours already that day to rehearse. I knew things he couldn't possibly know— in particular, that the young couple who'd spotted the body and the backpack had not seen the backpack on the way up. If Steve had been with Heinz, it was logical that he was the person who took it away and replaced it after sanitizing its contents. He also had to be the person who'd sent one suitcase to the Gruners.

  I made a list of questions to ask him, putting the important ones up front. He might decide at any moment that he had heard enough and disconnect. Then he was lost to me forever.
While I was writing the questions, the phone rang. It was Liz Clark, Steve's wannabe girlfriend.

  “You asked me to call you if I remembered anything about Steve and that hike in Arizona.”

  “Yes. What do you remember?”

  “I'm sure he told me he was going. It wasn't just a maybe. He asked me to come to Phoenix and meet his parents and then we could go hiking. That really scared me.”

  “What scared you,” I asked, “meeting his parents or hiking with him?”

  She laughed. “Both, if you want the truth. But mostly meeting his parents. He was obviously more serious about me than I was about him. I told him I couldn't go.”

  “So what makes you think he was going to hike with a college friend?”

  “After I said I couldn't make it, he groused around for a while. Then he said he'd be going anyway with some guy in the dorm. I don't think he mentioned a name.”

  I thanked her for taking the trouble to call. When I got off the phone, it was nearly three. I scribbled a few more questions that I knew I would never get to ask, and waited tensely for the phone to ring. Three o'clock came and went. I looked nervously at my watch. Nothing happened. Then the front door opened—I had left it open for Eddie—and the phone rang at the same moment.

  “Come on in, honey,” I called, then, into the phone, “Hello?”

  There was a moment of pandemonium. I shushed Eddie, took out the milk, and responded to Marty McHugh's greeting. I put my finger to my lips to show Eddie he had to be quiet.

  “Yes, I'm here, Marty. Sorry. My son just came home from school.”

  “You want me to call back?”

  “No. I'm ready.”

  “OK. Go ahead. I have Steve on the line.”

  “Mr. Millman,” I said, sliding into my chair and taking the waiting pencil. “My name is Christine Bennett Brooks and I am calling to talk to you about Heinz Gruner's death.”

  “I wasn't there,” a second man's voice said. “I can't tell you anything about it.”

  “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 c
ookie 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.”