The Cinco de Mayo Murder Read online

  I stayed and chatted for a while after my transaction had been rung up. Then I took one of the store's cards in case I thought of something I just couldn't live without, not a likely event.

  At the corner was a wonderful mystery bookstore. I went in and looked at the titles. I thought this might be a fine place for me to find some new writers to introduce to the students in my class on mysteries. After half an hour of browsing and chatting, I walked out with three books, looking forward to starting one when I finished the one I had brought along.

  It was now after three. My shopping had been successful, and I drove back to Phoenix, avoiding the rush hour. It was late when I finally saw Joseph. She called me on the hotel phone and invited me to come down to the bar and have a drink with her and some of the participants of her conference. I had been reading and was glad for the chance to meet people and talk. The bar was filled with nuns, in and out of habit, and a handful of priests. I found Joseph and sat in the chair she had saved for me. When the waiter came, I ordered a glass of sherry.

  The other nuns at the table were from different orders: a Sister of Charity, a Sister of St. Joseph, and a Dominican. The discussion was about the focus of the conference, the waning reserve of new nuns, the aging of the current nuns, and where to lookfor a resolution. As the conversation progressed, I could see fatigue in all the women's eyes. They were not used to staying up late; they awoke early. As soon as the first one looked at her watch and decided to leave, the party broke up.

  “It sounds as though you're big on problems and short on solutions,” I said to Joseph when we were in our room.

  “No one expects to find a solution this week. I did, however, get some comfort from one of the discussions today.

  The fact that St. Stephen's has a college goes a long way toward keeping us alive. We're not just a group of aging nuns; we perform a vital service that most convents do not.”

  “I'm relieved to hear that.” It has been a constant worry of mine that the convent would be closed down, the nuns scattered to other, more viable convents.

  “Did you shop today?”

  “Did I shop! Joseph, look at what I have.” I opened the little boxes in my bag and showed her everything, telling her about the shop I visited last.

  She drew in her breath when she saw the turquoise pendant. “This is magnificent. She will love it. What a find.”

  I showed her the other things and she admired them. “Nothing for yourself?”

  “I don't need anything.”

  “That's my Chris. Oh, I am so tired. Thinking is every bit as strenuous as physical exercise. I am getting ready for bed.”

  The following day I drove to a few other places the AAA had marked for me. I didn't buy anything except a T-shirt for Eddie, but I took a lot of pictures. This was the second and last day of the conference. We were checking out in the morning and driving to Tucson with a stop at Picacho Peak Park. I had the file on Heinz's death with me, Deputy Gonzales's phone number, and a full tank of gas. In a way, my personal adventure would begin in the morning.

  On Wednesday we had a large breakfast in the hotel, then packed, and checked out. A clerk assured us it would be an easy drive to Tucson.

  From the parking lot, I called Deputy Gonzales on Joseph's cell phone. As the General Superior, she required one when she was away from the convent. The deputy gave me an estimate of how long it would take to drive to our meeting place. I told him to add an extra fifteen minutes— we might not drive as fast as Arizonans. He laughed and said he would do that.

  Joseph drove and I navigated. Once we were on I-10 headed for Tucson, there was little for me to do. We just stayed on the road until we got off for the park. The mountain peak loomed ahead of us for half an hour, on one side of the road or the other, before we reached our exit. The shape was distinctive, and I hoped we wouldn't have to hike to the top. My guidebook pegged it at almost thirtyfour hundred feet. I took my wallet out to pay the entrance fee as we approached the park.

  Just beyond the kiosk was a sheriff's car. We parked at the side of the road in front of it and got out as the door opened and a uniformed man put his hat on and joined us.

  “Morning, ladies. I'm Deputy Warren Gonzales. Happy to meet you.” He extended his hand and we shook it in turn, introducing ourselves.

  “Hope you had an easy drive,” he said.

  We assured him we had.

  “Tell you what I think we should do. You've got the map of the park.” We had just been given it. “This is the parking area we'll go to.” He circled it. “We can leave our cars there and start to climb. You ladies got good shoes on?”

  I was wearing sneakers, and Joseph had sturdy shoes. Deputy Gonzales looked at them and frowned.

  “I'll be fine,” Joseph said. “Shall we follow you?”

  “If you wouldn't mind.”

  There were several parking areas, each of them near a trail with the difficulty marked. Deputy Gonzales drove slowly, then signaled his turn. Before he left the car, he put a sun shield in the front of his window. We hadn't thought to buy one, so Joseph parked with the front of the car facing away from the sun. We each took a bottle of water along, to the approval of the deputy.

  “OK, let me show you where we're going.” He opened his map of the park, put an X in the parking area where we stood, and traced the trail with his finger. “As I remember, the body was about up here.” He pointed. “Not on the trail but down off the side of it. We won't be able to get to that exact point, but I can show you where we found his backpack. That your husband we faxed the file to, Ms. Bennett?”

  “Lt. Jack Brooks. That's my husband. I have the file with me. We've both looked it over.”

  “Real nice fellow, your husband. So you have an idea what I found when I got here that day. OK, if you're ready, let's start up the trail.”

  He led, stopping from time to time to let us rest. As we went, he gave us some history. The Civil War battle of Picacho Pass had taken place here in the spring of 1862, half a century before Arizona became a state. The sun was high now, the sky an amazing bright blue without a hint of clouds. I was glad I had thought to take along a straw hat. Without it, I would have been in bad shape. I was concerned about Joseph's comfort, but she didn't seem any worse off than I was. Deputy Gonzales, a trim man with a touch of gray, mopped his face once or twice, but apparently had a pair of legs used to hard work.

  The scenery was beautiful. Deputy Gonzales told us that in the spring the entire mountainside was covered with wildflowers. “Real pretty,” he said. “People come from all over to see it.”

  “How long have you been with the sheriff's department, Deputy Gonzales?” I asked.

  “'Bout twenty-five years. And I'd appreciate it if you'd call me Warren. We're pretty casual here in Arizona.”

  “Thank you. I'm Chris.”

  He gave me a smile. “We're almost there.”

  We had been hiking for almost half an hour, and I was glad to hear that the end was in sight. I would have given anything for a gallon of ice water, but my quart bottle was keeping me in good shape. As I looked left and right, I could see the occasional hiker on another path. Two people came downhill as we went up, and we moved aside to let them through. They were young and cheerful and told us it was beautiful up ahead.

  “OK, ladies,” Warren called down to us. He had gotten some distance from us and now he stood and waited as we climbed more slowly. “Just around this bend.”

  We joined him and turned the corner, leaving the trail we had covered out of our field of vision. Another minute and he stopped.

  “Just about here,” he said. “The backpack was about where I'm standing. Down there,” he pointed to a steep incline, “right where that stand of trees is—that's where we saw his body.”

  “So the trees stopped his fall,” Joseph said.

  “Looked that way, ma'am. He'd probably turned over a couple of times on the way down, slid some, grabbed onto scrub, but couldn't stop his fall, then went into the trees
.”

  “How do you know he grabbed onto anything?” I asked.

  “His hands were scratched, kinda bloody if I remember.” That would mean he hadn't committed suicide, I thought. Of course, after having jumped or hurled himself down, he might have changed his mind or instinctively tried to stop his fall.

  “I don't remember seeing any comments about his hands in the autopsy report,” I said.

  “Haven't read it for twenty years. The ME was pretty sure it was an accident, so maybe he wasn't as thorough as he could've been. I don't think going down the slope is a very good idea, ladies.”

  I had to agree. I took some pictures of the slope, the stand of trees, the trail, and put my camera away. “What kind of trees are those?” I asked.

  “They're mesquites. Lots of them in this part of the country. They use 'em to flavor barbecue, and they make furniture out of the good pieces. Beautiful wood when it's sanded and oiled.”

  They didn't look very beautiful now, but rather scraggly.

  “Over there, that tree that's green from the roots up, that's a palo verde. Means ‘green stick’ and that's what it is. Even the trunk stays green.” He turned to me. “What is the purpose of your seeing this place?”

  “I knew him from high school. His death destroyed not only his life but his parents’ lives as well. His father died of a heart attack about a year afterward, and his mother had a stroke that's left her with difficulty walking. The fear they both had is that he killed himself.”

  “It's possible,” Warren said, “but I don't believe it. You can see how hot it is right now at the beginning of May. My recollection is that he died on or about the fifth, Cinco de Mayo.”

  “What's that?” Joseph asked.

  “Ah, a great day in Mexican history, Sister: the day General Zaragoza won the battle of Puebla in 1862 after Maximilian was executed. If not for that, we could have had a French country south of the border.”

  Joseph smiled. “Thank you. Please go on.”

  “Let's see. I was about to say that May can get pretty hot here, over a hundred sometimes. I expect he wasn't prepared for the heat and the dryness. Could've been dehydrated, gotten dizzy maybe, lost his balance.”

  “That's what I'd like to find out,” I said. “I'd like to be able to tell his mother it was an accident. It won't make her a happy woman, but it will ease her conscience if she knows it wasn't suicide.”

  “Tough to prove one way or another. I got my gut feelings to go by, but that won't convince this poor fellow's mother.”

  “I know.”

  “Which tree was his body up against?” Joseph asked.

  “The one in the middle. It was in better shape twenty years ago. See that moss hanging from those branches? That's in the process of killing the tree. Next time you come, it may not be here.”

  “That's a saguaro, isn't it?” I asked, pointing to a large cactus whose arms stretched up and out.

  “Oh yeah. You'll see a lot of 'em in Arizona. Won't see 'em much elsewhere.”

  “They're really something.”

  “I'm sure you know that suicide is a very touchy issue in the Catholic Church,” Joseph said. “Priests often officiate at funerals for suicide victims on the assumption that they may have changed their minds when it was too late to save themselves. This could be one of those times.”

  “Which makes it harder to figure out what happened,” I added. “Was anything found near the body, Warren? Water or food or any piece of clothing?”

  “Nothing that I remember. It was pretty messy. There are animals—”

  “I know,” I said, cutting him off. I didn't want to think about the close-up pictures I had seen.

  “Was the backpack open or closed?” Joseph asked.

  “Closed, I think. Packed kind of neat. Had his ID, Social Security card, some pictures of his parents, a driver's license.”

  “Anything else?”

  “That should be in the file,” Warren said.

  “Do you have the name and address of the people who found him?”

  “That's in the file,” I said. “It was a local couple, people who lived in Tucson.”

  “Then maybe we can find them. I think it would be instructive to hear what they say.”

  “Don't know if they're still around after twenty years,” Warren said, “but you can give it a try. I can't think of a better place to live than Tucson myself. Lots of folks feel that way.”

  I smiled. Then I took a last look around. I asked Warren if I might take a picture of him, just as a memento. He gave me a grin and stood up straight while I pointed and shot. I promised to send him a copy.

  “I think so,” I said.

  “Get any answers?”

  “Just a few more questions.” “Well, in my business, that's considered progress. Let's head back down before we melt.”

  We said our good-byes in the parking lot. I promised Warren I would be in touch with him if I learned anything new. He said it had been a pleasure taking us up the trail.

  We got back on the interstate and continued toward Tucson. The traffic picked up as we drove and the speed limit dropped. We exited at Broadway and Congress, two parallel streets, each one-way in the opposite direction. Our hotel was close to the highway; we were soon registered and in our room.

  We had talked about the case all the way down from Picacho Peak. It was the scratches on Heinz's hands that concerned us both. Had instinct overcome his conscious desire to kill himself, or had he fallen and attempted to stop himself all the way down to the stand of trees?

  We decided to try to find the couple who had discovered the body. In the hotel room I located their name, which was in the file, and found them in the telephone directory, although the address was different from the one they had given twenty years before. I made the call and spoke to a girl who said she was their daughter. Her parents would not be home before five thirty. I promised to call back.

  Meanwhile, we were very hungry, so we went downstairs and ate some lunch. By the time we finished, it was late afternoon. We found out we were quite close to the Museum of Art and Old Town, two places on our visiting list. The museum closed at four, so that was out of the question, but we walked across a footbridge that spanned the two streets, finding ourselves in a large plaza with a fountain in the center and a beautiful old courthouse with a mosaic dome at the far end. We continued across the plaza till we came to a street, crossed it, and found Old Town. It was a low historic building filled with shops selling pottery, jewelry, and art objects from the Southwest.

  We walked around until we both agreed that our climb earlier in the day had made us ache too much to continue, so we returned to the hotel. I had brought The New York Times along from Phoenix and we shared it as we rested. A little before six, I called the number listed for Bradley Tower, the husband who had found the backpack.

  Mrs. Tower answered. I explained who I was and why I was calling.

  “You mean that poor fellow who fell down the mountainside? That must have been twenty years ago.”

  “That's the one. I wonder if we could get together and talk, Mrs. Tower. Your husband, too. I know that young man's mother and I'm trying to get as much information about his death as I can.”

  She left the phone and had a long conversation with her husband. “We could come down to your hotel tomorrow,” she said. “How would ten o'clock in the morning be?”

  “That would be great. We'll be downstairs in the lobby. My companion is a nun, so you'll recognize her right away.”

  We left it at that. I called home and had a quick chat with Jack. Eddie was sleeping and all was well. When I was off the phone, I found I was so tired that all I wanted was to get some sleep myself. I got no complaints from Joseph. She was already getting her nightshirt out of the drawer.

  We returned to the hotel before ten the next morning and took chairs facing an entrance. The Towers arrived punctually, Mrs. Tower's face lighting up when she spotted Joseph.

  I brought them over to
the arrangement of chairs and a sofa around a table and we introduced ourselves.

  “Before we begin,” Bradley Tower said, “I'd like to know how you found us.”

  I explained that I had the file of Heinz Gruner's accident, and their names and old address were in it.

  He looked troubled. “You can just put your hands on a criminal file anytime you want to?”

  “It's not a criminal file,” I said. “It's a police file of the accidental death of a boy I went to high school with. You and your wife reported it. As a matter of fact, I didn't get the file myself. My husband is a lieutenant in the New York Police Department. But nothing in that file is sealed.”

  “I see.”

  “Is there a problem?”

  He and his wife exchanged a glance. I suspected they'd had some conversation about this.

  “I think we're OK,” he said. “What did you want to know?”

  “Anything you can remember about finding the body. Were you going uphill or downhill when you spotted it?”

  “Downhill,” Mary Ann Tower said. “We came around the bend and I looked down the slope and there it was.”

  “She was pretty upset,” her husband said. “Not that I wasn't. But she kind of got faint and I had to steady her.”

  “Did you go down to the body?” I asked.

  “Mary Ann wouldn't hear of it. I wanted to, in case the poor guy was still alive.”

  “You could tell he wasn't,” Mary Ann said. “Even from that distance, you could see the animals had gotten to him. It was awful.”

  “So we knew it hadn't just happened.”

  “What did you do? Did you have a cell phone?”

  He laughed. “That was twenty years ago. There weren't any cell phones then. We hiked down the mountain and went to the tollbooth and reported it. The gal there called a ranger and the police, and a deputy came awhile later. We hiked back up with him to be sure he went to the right place. The ranger led the way.”