found out who sent it.”
“Do you remember what was in it?”
“Clothes. Clean clothes, dirty clothes. Some schoolbooks. There was nothing important, nothing that could tell us what had happened to our son on that mountain.”
“What did you do with the suitcase?”
“I don't remember anymore. I washed the clothes, I hung them up in his closet. Later on, after my husband died, after I had my stroke and I knew I couldn't live there by myself, I gave away everything that I couldn't take with me to Hillside Village.”
I thought how terrible that must have been, disposing of the clothing and mementos of the two people she had loved most. I, too, had a husband and a son—a husband who had achieved a great deal because of his hard work and strong commitment, and a son who we hoped would go even further with his life.
“Did you try to find out who had sent the suitcase?” I asked.
“My husband called the police. They said there was no suitcase. They had given him everything they had.”
“Which was the wallet, the keys, and the small backpack.”
“Yes. That was all. And we never got the second suitcase.”
“Do you know what was missing from his things?”
“No. He had simple clothes, enough to go a week before doing a laundry. If a blue shirt was missing or a pair of jeans they were all wearing, how should I know? And why should I care? Nothing mattered to me anymore.”
“I understand. Tell me, did you speak to him often on the phone?”
“Not so often. We wrote letters.”
“Letters,” I said with surprise. In the years I had taught English at St. Stephen's, I had come to realize that correspondence between students and parents was rare. The telephone provided the main, if not the only, linkbetween the generations. Checks came in the mail and little else. Today even that has probably changed, and e-mail has replaced the phone.
“My husband used to get angry at big phone bills. He said it was cheaper and more permanent to write letters.”
“Your husband was right,” I said. “Do you have Heinz's letters?”
“I have every letter he ever wrote to me.”
At that moment, a bell sounded. People rose and started toward the dining hall.
“Would you mind if I read the letters he wrote you his last year at Rimson?”
“I can find them for you. I don't have to go to lunch. We can—”
I smiled. “Yes, you do have to go to lunch, Mrs. Gruner. I'll walk you over. I'll come back this afternoon.”
She began to argue, but I assured her there was no hurry. We walked together, and at the door to the dining room we said good-bye.
Letters, I thought as I walked out to the car. Pieces of paper with writing on them. I began to giggle. Who could have imagined a cache of letters that might answer all sorts of questions about Heinz Gruner's life?
I went home and made myself a healthy salad, ate it with gusto, and read my paper. When Jack called, just to say hello, I told him the news.
“He wrote letters?” my disbelieving husband said. “I thought those went out with the cavemen.”
“You never know, do you? Anyway, we know for sure that Heinz left Rimson with two suitcases, and someone went through them, took what he wanted, and returned therest. Someone was with him, Jack. Someone joined him on the flight or met him in Phoenix.”
“How many detectives you got working on this with you?”
I laughed. “Just the usual. Hey, if you've got some spare time, see what you can find out about a guy named Steven Millman.” I gave him all the information I had.
“Sure, I'll do that little favor for you, honey. I'm expecting to have some spare time next January. That suit your investigation?”
“OK, Lieutenant. I'll back off.”
“If we could just get rid of those civilians, we'd have a pretty nice life here. I'll see what I can do.” He read back what I had told him and I approved it. “You going to read those letters?”
“I'm going to try to do it this afternoon. Eddie's taken care of
“Do you remember what was in it?”
“Clothes. Clean clothes, dirty clothes. Some schoolbooks. There was nothing important, nothing that could tell us what had happened to our son on that mountain.”
“What did you do with the suitcase?”
“I don't remember anymore. I washed the clothes, I hung them up in his closet. Later on, after my husband died, after I had my stroke and I knew I couldn't live there by myself, I gave away everything that I couldn't take with me to Hillside Village.”
I thought how terrible that must have been, disposing of the clothing and mementos of the two people she had loved most. I, too, had a husband and a son—a husband who had achieved a great deal because of his hard work and strong commitment, and a son who we hoped would go even further with his life.
“Did you try to find out who had sent the suitcase?” I asked.
“My husband called the police. They said there was no suitcase. They had given him everything they had.”
“Which was the wallet, the keys, and the small backpack.”
“Yes. That was all. And we never got the second suitcase.”
“Do you know what was missing from his things?”
“No. He had simple clothes, enough to go a week before doing a laundry. If a blue shirt was missing or a pair of jeans they were all wearing, how should I know? And why should I care? Nothing mattered to me anymore.”
“I understand. Tell me, did you speak to him often on the phone?”
“Not so often. We wrote letters.”
“Letters,” I said with surprise. In the years I had taught English at St. Stephen's, I had come to realize that correspondence between students and parents was rare. The telephone provided the main, if not the only, linkbetween the generations. Checks came in the mail and little else. Today even that has probably changed, and e-mail has replaced the phone.
“My husband used to get angry at big phone bills. He said it was cheaper and more permanent to write letters.”
“Your husband was right,” I said. “Do you have Heinz's letters?”
“I have every letter he ever wrote to me.”
At that moment, a bell sounded. People rose and started toward the dining hall.
“Would you mind if I read the letters he wrote you his last year at Rimson?”
“I can find them for you. I don't have to go to lunch. We can—”
I smiled. “Yes, you do have to go to lunch, Mrs. Gruner. I'll walk you over. I'll come back this afternoon.”
She began to argue, but I assured her there was no hurry. We walked together, and at the door to the dining room we said good-bye.
Letters, I thought as I walked out to the car. Pieces of paper with writing on them. I began to giggle. Who could have imagined a cache of letters that might answer all sorts of questions about Heinz Gruner's life?
I went home and made myself a healthy salad, ate it with gusto, and read my paper. When Jack called, just to say hello, I told him the news.
“He wrote letters?” my disbelieving husband said. “I thought those went out with the cavemen.”
“You never know, do you? Anyway, we know for sure that Heinz left Rimson with two suitcases, and someone went through them, took what he wanted, and returned therest. Someone was with him, Jack. Someone joined him on the flight or met him in Phoenix.”
“How many detectives you got working on this with you?”
I laughed. “Just the usual. Hey, if you've got some spare time, see what you can find out about a guy named Steven Millman.” I gave him all the information I had.
“Sure, I'll do that little favor for you, honey. I'm expecting to have some spare time next January. That suit your investigation?”
“OK, Lieutenant. I'll back off.”
“If we could just get rid of those civilians, we'd have a pretty nice life here. I'll see what I can do.” He read back what I had told him and I approved it. “You going to read those letters?”
“I'm going to try to do it this afternoon. Eddie's taken care of
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