a few minutes like old friends. I told her she looked better than when I'd last seen her, and she admitted that she'd decided to become more active, to spend less time in her room and more time among the residents.
“I think it's doing you good,” I said. “I want to tell you what I've been doing since I last saw you.” I told her about my trip to Arizona, leading in gently to my visit to Picacho Peak Park.
“You went there?” She seemed astounded.
“It's a beautiful place,” I said. “And I wanted to see if I could learn more about Heinz's death.”
Her face became sober, the lines in her forehead deeper. “You found out something, Chris?”
“I found out a few things and I have some questions for you.”
“I will tell you anything I know.”
The first thing I did was go over the names of the young men on the dormitory corridor. I read them off slowly, asking her if any of them sounded familiar. She listened attentively as I read each one, then shookher head, appearing discouraged. When I said, “Herb Fallon,” though, she perked up.
“Herb,” she repeated. “Herbie. Maybe he knew a Herbie. Maybe I heard that name from him.”
“He's a professor at Rimson now,” I said. “He liked Heinz very much.”
“A professor,” she said sadly. “My boy would have been a professor.”
I waited. Finally, she told me to continue. I read off the last few names. One sounded somewhat familiar, but she could identify no one as good friend or best friend or hiking companion. The name Steve Millman rang no bell.
“I want to ask you about Heinz's luggage,” I said.
“What luggage?”
“He took suitcases to school, didn't he?”
“In the fall, yes. In the spring he brought them home.”
“But that spring he flew to Phoenix.”
“So what happened to his luggage?” she asked.
“That's my question.”
She thought quietly. “If my husband were here, he would remember. Wait, wait. Yes, something happened with the suitcases. There were two. One we had from Germany. The other we bought when he started at Rimson. When he came home for holidays, he brought the smaller one with him. But he went from Rimson to Arizona that spring; I rememberthat. He took all of it with him. When he died and my husband went out, there was no suitcase, just a—what do you call it? One of those things you carry on your back when you hike.”
“A backpack,” I said.
“A small backpack. No clothes.”
“Did your husband inquire after the suitcases?”
She shrugged. “Maybe. It was the least of our problems.” She closed her eyes. “There was something,” she said, “something funny about the suitcases. Let me think a moment.”
I stood and walked to the large window. Beautiful plantings and a small waterfall were just beyond the glass, separated by a path for walkers. I was impressed with the care this institution had taken for the sake of beauty. At this time of year, the greenery was lush and the water so clear it made me thirsty.
“Chris.”
I turned. Mrs. Gruner's eyes were open, wide open.
“A suitcase came to the house. I remember now. It was after my husband came back, after the funeral. The doorbell rang one morning and when I opened the door, there was a man with a piece of paper for me to sign. I was so shocked when I saw the suitcase, I could hardly breathe. It was as though Heinz were about to walk through the open door. Only there was no Heinz. There was just a suitcase.”
“Who sent it?”
“I don't know. It was paid for, I remember that. I asked the man if I had to pay and he said no, it was all taken care of. I called my husband and told him. I wouldn't open it till he came home.”
“Was it locked?” I asked.
“Not with a key. With some wire. If you opened the wire, it broke.”
“For security,” I said. “Did you have the key?”
“It was on the key ring in Heinz's pocket. He had the key to our house and the keys for both suitcases. But only one suitcase came, and we never
“I think it's doing you good,” I said. “I want to tell you what I've been doing since I last saw you.” I told her about my trip to Arizona, leading in gently to my visit to Picacho Peak Park.
“You went there?” She seemed astounded.
“It's a beautiful place,” I said. “And I wanted to see if I could learn more about Heinz's death.”
Her face became sober, the lines in her forehead deeper. “You found out something, Chris?”
“I found out a few things and I have some questions for you.”
“I will tell you anything I know.”
The first thing I did was go over the names of the young men on the dormitory corridor. I read them off slowly, asking her if any of them sounded familiar. She listened attentively as I read each one, then shookher head, appearing discouraged. When I said, “Herb Fallon,” though, she perked up.
“Herb,” she repeated. “Herbie. Maybe he knew a Herbie. Maybe I heard that name from him.”
“He's a professor at Rimson now,” I said. “He liked Heinz very much.”
“A professor,” she said sadly. “My boy would have been a professor.”
I waited. Finally, she told me to continue. I read off the last few names. One sounded somewhat familiar, but she could identify no one as good friend or best friend or hiking companion. The name Steve Millman rang no bell.
“I want to ask you about Heinz's luggage,” I said.
“What luggage?”
“He took suitcases to school, didn't he?”
“In the fall, yes. In the spring he brought them home.”
“But that spring he flew to Phoenix.”
“So what happened to his luggage?” she asked.
“That's my question.”
She thought quietly. “If my husband were here, he would remember. Wait, wait. Yes, something happened with the suitcases. There were two. One we had from Germany. The other we bought when he started at Rimson. When he came home for holidays, he brought the smaller one with him. But he went from Rimson to Arizona that spring; I rememberthat. He took all of it with him. When he died and my husband went out, there was no suitcase, just a—what do you call it? One of those things you carry on your back when you hike.”
“A backpack,” I said.
“A small backpack. No clothes.”
“Did your husband inquire after the suitcases?”
She shrugged. “Maybe. It was the least of our problems.” She closed her eyes. “There was something,” she said, “something funny about the suitcases. Let me think a moment.”
I stood and walked to the large window. Beautiful plantings and a small waterfall were just beyond the glass, separated by a path for walkers. I was impressed with the care this institution had taken for the sake of beauty. At this time of year, the greenery was lush and the water so clear it made me thirsty.
“Chris.”
I turned. Mrs. Gruner's eyes were open, wide open.
“A suitcase came to the house. I remember now. It was after my husband came back, after the funeral. The doorbell rang one morning and when I opened the door, there was a man with a piece of paper for me to sign. I was so shocked when I saw the suitcase, I could hardly breathe. It was as though Heinz were about to walk through the open door. Only there was no Heinz. There was just a suitcase.”
“Who sent it?”
“I don't know. It was paid for, I remember that. I asked the man if I had to pay and he said no, it was all taken care of. I called my husband and told him. I wouldn't open it till he came home.”
“Was it locked?” I asked.
“Not with a key. With some wire. If you opened the wire, it broke.”
“For security,” I said. “Did you have the key?”
“It was on the key ring in Heinz's pocket. He had the key to our house and the keys for both suitcases. But only one suitcase came, and we never
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