The Cinco de Mayo Murder Read online

  “I'm going to have to contact his college,” I said. “I'm sure Mrs. Gruner will remember where he went. The college has to know what happened to Heinz. A catastrophe like that doesn't happen often.”

  “That's a good start. When you start putting out feelers, more things will pop up. Old acquaintances will surface. Not that I'm telling you something you don't already know.”

  We had managed to talk all through dinner. Now we sipped our coffee, hearing voices and laughter from nearby tables. It was so peaceful here, it almost seemed wrong to be talking about a possible murder.

  We drove to the Desert Museum after breakfast on Friday morning. It opened early, and we were both early birds. The trip itself was worth the drive. The road wound through mountains covered with saguaros and other cactus plants that were beginning to look as familiar to me as oaks and maples and sycamores in the East.

  We received maps of the paths through the museum grounds as we entered. We knew there was too much to cover in one morning, so we elected to go to our left toward the hummingbird aviary, and after that, to the large aviary. In between we saw the plants and trees of the Sonoran Desert, mesquite and palo verde trees that were green from the ground up to the top, like those Deputy Gonzales had pointed out on the mountain. There were numerous varieties of chollas and agaves, beautiful golden barrels, and cactus plants that looked like works of art—the way they crept here and there, coiled around themselves, and occasionally bloomed.

  “I am done in,” Joseph said as we neared the main building after wending our way along a mile of paths. “I think the other half of this wonderful place will have to wait for another visit.”

  “If I can persuade Jack to come, you'll have to join us. I think he would just eat up everything we've seen and want more.”

  We went inside and looked around the gift shop, enjoying the air-conditioning. I bought a small jar of Sonoran honey and a T-shirt for Eddie. By the time I finished this trip, his summer wardrobe would be complete. Joseph picked up some honey, too, a larger jar to share with the nuns who breakfasted with her. Then we hiked to our car and drove back to the city.

  “I must say I like being a tourist,” Joseph said as we sat under the trees in the courtyard of Old Town, sipping lemonade and eating southwestern salads. “I've become quite adept at it in very few days. Do you think we'll have time to visit the convent?”

  I looked at my watch. “Of course we have time. We can visit the museum and then drive out there.”

  Joseph opened a map of Tucson and located the convent she'd heard about. “It's quite far east. It may take us half an hour or more to get there.”

  “That's what we're here for,” I said. “We'll get there.”

  After lunch we walked through several of the Old Town shops, coming out near the entrance to the Museum of Art. We stopped in their gift shop first, where everything was made by southwestern artists. I picked up a few things for Eddie, Jack, and my mother-in-law, happy that I could give them beautiful and unusual gifts one would never see on the East Coast.

  Then we tooka swing through the museum to see the new exhibit. The afternoon was half over when we finished. I took the wheel and Joseph guided me east and north, giving us a new part of the city to admire. There were hills and canyons in the northeast, saguaros growing everywhere, the scenery wonderful.

  We reached the convent, which appeared to be empty, the church locked, a Spanish-speaking gardener unable to answer our questions. What Joseph wanted to see were the Stations of the Cross spread on the hill beyond the buildings. We walked up to the first two, then came down again. It was getting late, and we had a long drive back to the hotel. This had been our last day in Arizona, and we had packed more into the week than I had expected.

  As I had promised and Jack had insisted, I took Joseph out to a memorable dinner. I think by then I had fallen in love with Tucson and was hoping to arrange to get our family out here. I had been amazed by the amount of art I saw, not just for sale in shops and galleries, but also along the roads we traveled, in the restaurants, and out-of-doors, where people passed it and appreciated it daily. By contrast, our lovely town of Oakwood in New York seemed dull and colorless. It needed a few murals, I thought, or some handsome pieces of sculpture, or an artistic bench one could sit on while contemplating a clear blue sky. Not much chance that we would ever achieve anything so lofty, but it was nice to dream.

  In the morning, we drove to the airport, returned the car, checked in, and went through security. I had never felt so sad at leaving a place that I hardly knew. When we were at our gate with time to spare, I stood at the large window and looked at the bluest sky I had ever seen, at the mountains that turned gold and pink and purple at sunset.

  “This was a wonderful trip,” Joseph said at my side. “I know I will miss this place.”

  “So will I. I think I finally know what love at first sight means.”

  “I thought that applied to relationships between men and women.”

  “It may do that also. Look at that sky, Joseph. Look at those mountains. I've never seen anything like it. Imagine waking up every day to those mountains.”

  Joseph was silent. A moment later our flight was called. Half an hour after that, I saw the city and the mountains for the last time as we headed north and east. I felt very lucky.

  For the first time, I found it hard to get back to my routine. I haven't visited many places—although our trip to Israel a couple of years before was as good as traveling gets—but the Southwest had worked its charm on me, and I continued to feel its pull for several days after my return. It was May in the East, too, but the sky was duller, the air chillier, my daily tasks more of a burden. I kept this to myself while talking about the trip and telling Jack how much he and Eddie would enjoy Arizona.

  Sunday was my buffer day, time to get back to normal, performing the mundane but necessary tasks of life like doing laundry. After mass, Jack took us all out to a buffet brunch, including my cousin Gene, who lives in a residence for retarded adults here in town. Grandma Brooks was already back home in Brooklyn, having left me enough meals and desserts for several days. That lessened the impact of running a household again, and I expressed my gratitude to her in the afternoon after we returned to the house and Eddie and Gene went outside to play.

  “You want me to apply for chief of police in a small town in Arizona?” Jack asked with a twinkle after I got off the phone.

  “Wouldn't that be nice. But I'm not ready for that yet. I'd miss Joseph and the nuns. And what would I do without Mel across the street?”

  “Just askin'. You haven't talked about Mrs. Gruner's son.”

  “We learned some interesting things, Jack.” I walked to the window to check on the boys, who were more than thirty years apart in physical age. They were sitting at the patio table and playing some game. I came back and told him our theory that Heinz had made the climb with another person who had a car parked at the base of the trail.

  “That's new. I looked through that file before I gave it to you and nothing like that was even hinted at. The guy was thought to be alone and it was a simple case of falling off the trail.”

  “Maybe not so simple.” I told him about our meeting with the Towers, about the backpack that wasn't there and then was.

  “So nobody thought to ask. That's the trouble with young, inexperienced guys.”

  “No one expects a fall on a mountain to be a homicide,” I said, defending Gonzales's handling of the case.

  “But the question of luggage, of a return plane ticket… the deputy should've asked. Somebody should've asked. I suppose the parents were too overwhelmed to think about things like that.”

  “I'm going to call Rimson College tomorrow,” I said. Maddie had left a message with Jack with the name while I was gone. “I know it's a long time ago, but I bet they know the names of the students who were on his corridor in the dorm or who shared his room. Someone will remember that he went to Arizona after exams. And maybe someone will rememb
er that he went with a friend.”

  “You going to talk to his mother about this?”

  “Not yet. I don't want to say anything that will make her feel worse. When I have something substantial, maybe I'll sit down with her.”

  “Well, you're doing good, Chris. You picked up a crucial piece of information that they let slide.”

  Something banged outside the house and Jack dashed out to see what damage had been done. I smiled and went to the kitchen to make some lemonade for my family.

  Monday was the return of normality. Jack went off to New York to be a cop and Eddie went to school, leaving me with my empty house, the Heinz Gruner file, and a shopping list that would have to be filled by late afternoon. My mind was far from shopping lists. I called information and got a phone number for Rimson College in Illinois. I knew colleges were reluctant to give out information on students and former students; still, it was a small place well out of the New York metropolitan area, and people might be more forthcoming.

  When my household duties were finished, I made the call. The first person to answer switched me to the registrar's office. We had a conversation of about five minutes during which she told me she was unable to divulge the kind of information I'd requested. Another minute and she agreed to let me speak to someone in a supervisory position. When a second woman answered, I restated my story and request.

  “Twenty years ago,” she mused. “Those would still be paper records. They'd be in storage, and I don't have the authority to get that file.”

  I tried to impress her with the importance of my mission. “If this young man was murdered, it's important to bring the killer to justice.”

  “Do you know that he was murdered?”

  “I don't. But I do know that new information has been uncovered and it conflicts with the police report at the time of his death.”

  “Why doesn't the police department give us a call? I'm sure we'd have no difficulty responding to them.”

  “Ma'am, is there a dean who's been around since the date of this student's death?”

  “Let me see.” She left the phone while I hoped she considered my question seriously. When she came back, she said, “We do have a dean of students here who's been with the college for a long time. He wasn't a dean back then, but I know he taught here for several years before his appointment. Would you like to talk to him?”

  “Very much.”

  “I'll connect you.”

  The next person I spoke to was the dean's secretary. A moment later the dean himself came on the line.

  “Dean Hershey.”

  “Good morning, Dean Hershey. My name is Christine Bennett.” I stated my case from the beginning and never got to the end.

  “Heinz Gruner,” he interrupted. “Yes, of course I remember his death. A terrible tragedy. He was a gifted student. It happened somewhere in the Southwest, didn't it?”

  “Yes, it did. Near Tucson, Arizona.”

  “Heinz was a student of mine. I taught history, and he was a history major.”

  I almost cheered. I continued my story, adding that I had been in touch with Mrs. Gruner, who lived not far from me. When I came to the end, I asked if he would assist me in trying to find out exactly what had happened on that mountain in Arizona.

  “I will do that, Miss Bennett. I knew Heinz and I liked him. He would have made a fine scholar. His goal was to teach, and I couldn't think of a better career for him. What can I do to help?”

  I outlined the information I wanted, and the dean promised to put a researcher on the job immediately. He would report back to me and let me know what he had before he mailed it to me. I had the presence of mind to get his office extension before we finished our conversation. I didn't want to go through another set of hurdles if I needed to call him again.

  Having achieved more than I'd hoped, I took my shopping list and went back to the homely tasks that would keep my home and family going.

  Late in the day Dean Hershey called me back. “I have everything you asked for, Miss Bennett, including a sketch of the dormitory corridor he lived on. The occupants of every room are named, and there's a list of the most recent addresses the college has. Some are as old as graduation, but many of the men have been generous donors. I have their current addresses.”

  “That will be very helpful, Dean Hershey. I can't thank you enough.”

  “All I ask of you is that you let me know the outcome of your sleuthing. I've thought for twenty years that that poor boy slipped and fell to his death, and that was bad enough. But if some person caused his death, I want to know about it.”

  “I'll tell you whatever I learn.”

  “Thank you. I'm overnighting the package. You should have it by noon tomorrow.”

  I called Joseph to tell her the news.

  “I'm so glad you called, Chris,” she said, sounding harried. “I returned to such a mess, I couldn't believe my eyes. Unanswered phone calls, a washing machine that has died of old age, Harold the gardener suddenly taken ill. I thought I was a good planner, but apparently I need to go back to planning school.”

  I commiserated and then told her my news.

  “What luck! A dean who actually taught that young man. Of course he's interested in the outcome. It sounds as though you'll be happily busy for days to come.”

  “I'd certainly rather be busy talking to Heinz's old friends than shopping for a washing machine. I hope Harold is all right.”

  “It sounds like his annual back trouble. We'll cope. Be sure to call with news.”

  Before Jack came home, I got on the computer and found Rimson College's website. It was one of those fine old liberal arts colleges that specialized in English and history, languages and literature. It had both men and women students, but they had the choice of living in either separate or mixed dormitories. Heinz had opted to live with male students.

  I looked at the current year's curriculum. If you were a student of American or European history, it was a fine place to study. The members of the faculty were listed with photos and bios. One had won a Pulitzer Prize some years before; another had been a Rhodes Scholar. Several had had Fulbrights. I was impressed with their credentials.

  The pictures of the campus showed green grass and mostly old buildings, although two new ones were highlighted, a library of glass and steel overlooking a waterfall and a cafeteria near the dormitories. I thought how wonderful it would be to study in a place like that, how conducive to learning such a campus would be.

  I made note of the professors who had been teaching there the longest in the hope that some of them might remember Heinz. The English professor who had won the Pulitzer had been there for more than thirty years; a history professor had also been on the faculty that long. One of the younger history professors had graduated from Rimson about the time that Heinz would have, had he lived. That might be a fruitful source.

  All in all, I felt I was moving forward. Jack agreed when he came home.

  “That's a stroke of luck, finding a dean who knew the guy personally. It makes him an ally.”

  “It really does. He's overnighting the stuff.” I told him about the website, the beautiful pictures, and the fine curriculum.

  “You check out the tuition?” my practical husband asked.

  “I was afraid to. Whatever it is now, it'll be a lot more when Eddie's ready for college. But it would be nice for him to go to such a beautiful place.”

  “Looks like I better study for the captain's exam or think about private practice.” He had gone to law school and passed the bar since I met him.

  “Do what you enjoy doing,” I said. “When the time comes, we'll find the money.”

  “Said by a real optimist.”

  “You bet.” I kissed his cheek. He had given me the same advice many times.

  The package from Dean Hershey arrived at eleven. I had waited nervously for the doorbell since breakfast. I brought it in and sat down at the dining room table, which we used far more for spreading out work than for
eating. I slit the envelope and pulled out a stack of paper topped with a formal letter from the dean. Then I started turning pages.

  Near the top of the pile was the dormitory information, a sketch of a corridor with numbered rooms on each side.

  The page after that listed the occupants of each room with a name, address, phone number, and e-mail address if the college had it. A third page showed an entering picture or a graduation picture for each boy. The picture of Heinz was exactly as I remembered him. I laid the sketch, the list, and the photos on the table side by side and began to go down the list of names. One of them sounded familiar: Herbert Fallon. Where had I heard it before?

  I pulled over the notes I had made in Arizona, but his name wasn't there. Then I grabbed the ones I had made the previous afternoon when I looked at the website. Herbert Fallon was the history professor who had graduated the year Heinz would have if he'd lived. I felt elated. They'd known each other as undergraduates.

  As I went down the list I found that, except for Professor Fallon, the men on the corridor had scattered across the country. Of the nine undergraduates, two had gone into academic life, both in Illinois. One boy had disappeared. There was no address after his parents’ home. Of the six who were left, one was a lawyer in New York City, another a lawyer in Minneapolis. One was unclear, but I had a phone number. Another worked in California. The eighth seemed to have no business connection and no work address, or at least none that he wanted known. And the ninth, of course, was Heinz.

  I decided to call the man who had returned to Rimson to teach history first and then the ones on either side of Heinz's room, the one living in Phoenix, his roommate, and the New York lawyer. The Phoenix address had leaped out at me. If the man was living in Phoenix as an undergraduate, he might well have been Heinz's companion on the mountain. No one else on the list lived anywhere near Tucson.

  By the time I had finished looking through the material in the package and setting my priorities, it was lunchtime. On the chance that the professor would be in his office, I dialed the college and asked for Herbert Fallon. A moment later a man's voice said, “Fallon.”