The Pot Thief Who Studied the Woman at Otowi Crossing
A Pot Thief Mystery
J. Michael Orenduff
Spoiler Alert
We at Open Road know that some readers like to read the acknowledgements and other parts of a book before reading the story. Please refrain from doing so in this case as the ending is revealed in the Author’s Postscript.
Chapter 1
Susannah asked how I knew the guy on the ambulance gurney was dead.
“Simple,“ I said, “the sheet was pulled over his head.”
“If you couldn’t see the head, how do you know it was a guy?”
I shrugged. “I suppose it could have been a flat-chested woman wearing size 12 wingtips.”
She ignored my sarcasm and said, “Maybe they were just trying to keep him warm.”
“It’s close to seventy,” I pointed out. Even though it was early January, the sun hanging in the clear sky above the west mesa warmed the veranda at Dos Hermanas Tortilleria. The name is technically accurate because they do make and sell tortillas. But if the two sisters were to rename it based on what most of their customers buy, it would be Dos Hermanas Cantina.
The Albuquerque Visitors and Convention Authority likes to say we have “four mild seasons.” What they neglect to add is that they often happen on the same day. My windshield had frost that morning, and now my jacket was hanging on the back of a chair on the veranda.
And what a jacket it is. Hand-sewn from horsehide by Sunny Seepu from one of the local pueblos, it has a secret pocket in the lower back with two layers of horsehide where I can carry a small artifact illegally unearthed. Comes in handy when a BLM agent meets me strolling out of public land shortly before dawn.
And why should I worry about that?
Because I’m a pot thief. I make my living digging up and selling ancient pottery. Yes, I know it’s illegal. But it’s not immoral. The women who made those pots don’t want them to be buried forever. They want me to unearth their handiwork so that people can admire it. Which is why Sunny—who is descended from those ancient potters—made me the jacket. She knows I never dig in graves. It’s not only wrong; it’s pointless. The tradition of breaking pots as part of the burial ceremony means there’s nothing valuable in there. What kind of ghoul robs a grave for mere shards?
“Maybe they were just shading his eyes from the sun,” Susannah suggested. The woman has a quirky mind.
I told her Whit was standing next to the gurney.
She nodded knowingly and said, “And he’s a homicide detective.” Then she brightened and added, “Oh my god, Hubie. You’ve got the syndrome.” She plopped her saltless margarita glass onto the table and stared at me wide-eyed. “I thought it was made up, but it’s real. And you’ve got it. You’ve got the Jessica Fletcher Syndrome.”
I love how Susannah’s enthusiasm shows in her big brown eyes. But not when she’s telling me I’m afflicted with something from the List of Terrible Diseases Named after People. Like Alzheimer, Asperger, or Lou Gehrig.
I rotated my glass to the part of the rim with salt and took a large sip. “What are the symptoms?”
“Dead bodies.”
“God! It’s fatal?”
“Of course it’s fatal. Murder always is.”
Now I was really confused. “Murder isn’t a syndrome.”
“The syndrome doesn’t apply to the victims, Hubie; it applies to the people who find them.”
“So this Jessica Fletcher woman was an expert at tracking down murder victims?”
“Not tracking them down. More like just always having murders happen everywhere she went.”
I’d been headed to Dos Hermanas for the usual cocktail hour with Susannah when I saw the dead guy in the plaza just a block and a half from my shop in Old Town Albuquerque.
“So I’ve found a corpse or two. That doesn’t qualify as ‘always having murders everywhere I go’. I don’t think I have the Jessica Fletcher syndrome.”
when I heard myself say the last name, it sunk in. “wait—now it makes sense. Jessica Fletcher must be whit Fletcher’s wife. He’s a homicide detective, so naturally she’d have a lot of indirect connections with murder victims.”
“I didn’t know whit had a wife—poor woman—or that her name is Jessica. But it’s not the same person because the Jessica Fletcher the syndrome is named for is fictional.”
“Syndromes aren’t named after fictional persons.”
She leaned back in her chair and stuck a fist in the air. “Rapunzel Syndrome,” she said and raised her pointing finger. “Othello Syndrome.” Her middle finger straightened. “Also, Peter Pan Syndrome. Mowgli Syn—”
“Okay, okay. I don’t care who the syndrome is named after. I don’t have it.”
Even though I told her I didn’t care who it was named after, she told me anyway. “Jessica Fletcher is a character in a television show called Murder She Wrote. It’s been running forever.”
Susannah is a big murder mystery fan.
I relaxed a bit. “Somehow I can’t work up much interest in a fictional syndrome.”
“Jessica Fletcher may be fictional, but her syndrome is real. And you do have it.”
I opened my mouth, but she held up her palm and said, “Let’s start with Guvelly.”
“You also saw his corpse,” I noted, “so maybe you have the syndrome, too.”
She shook her head. “I saw him only because you came and got me out of class to help you decide what to do with him. Which was a good thing since your idea was to dump him into the Rio Grande. Although I can’t imagine why.”
“That should have been obvious. It’s the only river in Albuquerque.“
“Geez. I wasn’t wondering why the Rio Grande; I was wondering why dump him?”
“I was afraid if I told the police there was a dead guy in my shop, they might think I killed him.”
“But we did call the police. Whit Fletcher in fact. And he helped you out.”
“And made some money in the process.”
“But at least justice was served.”
We were both right. Whit is a good cop in the sense of going after the bad guys. But cash and valuables at a crime scene are apt to find their way into his wallet if they aren’t evidence.
“So the next dead guy you encountered—“
“How about a second round?” I asked and signaled for our server, Angie.
Chapter 2
“What’s your wife’s first name?”
It was the next day and Whit Fletcher was staring at me from just outside the front door of my Old Town pottery shop, Spirits in Clay.
“Normally people say ‘good morning’ or ‘hello’,” he said.
“Sorry,” I replied. “Good morning.”
“How about ‘come in’?” he asked as he shouldered past me.
I locked the door and followed him through the shop then the workshop and into what used to be my residence until I moved into Sharice’s downtown loft.
Whit grabbed a mug from the shelf and poured himself a coffee. After taking a seat and a sip, he looked up and said, “Birdie.”
“Birdie?”
“Right. Her real first name is Bertha, but she don’t like it, so she goes by Birdie. Why you ask?”
He questions everything. Probably comes from being a cop. He thinks we’re friends, and maybe we are. I don’t dislike the guy. He’s helped me out of a few jams even though he’s also gotten me into some as w
ell.
“I just wondered if her first name might be Jessica.”
He gave me a sour look. “That dame is a complete phony. Birdie watches the reruns every day. I explained to her a hunnerd times that the police work in that series is bogus, but she loves it.” He took another sip then said, “Kinda warm in here.” He stood up, removed his suit jacket and hung it on the back of the chair where it fit better than it did on him. Then he sat back down and said, “Have a seat, Hubert, so’s I don’t have to strain my neck looking up at you while I ask some questions. Not that you’re much shorter sittin’ down.”
I ignored the jibe and lowered my five foot six inches into the chair across from him.
“Gimme an account of where you were yesterday from the time you woke up until I saw you at the gazebo.”
“Why?”
“So’s I don’t have to run you downtown. The coffee at the police station’s not as good as yours.”
“Sharice woke me up in her condo about eight. We had one of our usual breakfasts, coffee and a croissant aux amandes, then she left for work.”
“What the hell is a cwassoon amounder?”
“A French donut,” I lied.
“Then I suppose the next thing you did is take Sharice’s African wildcat and that mongrel of yours for a walk.”
I nodded. The mongrel’s name is Geronimo and he looks like a cross between a chow, a collie, and an anteater. The cat belongs to Sharice and is named Benz. My guess is his mother was named Mercedes. He’s a Savannah cat, a breed created by crossing an African wild serval with a domestic cat. He looks like a smallish cheetah and fetches better than Geronimo. Unlike a domestic cat, Benz doesn’t mind a collar and leash, so walking him is not a problem. Except for the stares I get.
Sharice, as you’ve probably surmised, is my girlfriend. Like Benz, her ancestors came from Africa. They were forcibly taken to Jamaica in the eighteenth century. Her father immigrated to Montreal a few years before Sharice was born, thus accounting for French being her first language, although she speaks English a lot better than Whit does.
Luckily for me, she moved to Albuquerque about five years ago. Her long limbs and petite hands captivated me the first time I saw her. The second time I saw her, those hands ended up in my mouth. It wasn’t as erotic as it sounds—she was cleaning my teeth. She’s a dental hygienist.
“Then what?” asked Whit.
“I took a shower, walked to Old Town, and spent the day in my workshop.”
“Making forgeries.”
“I prefer to call them copies.”
“What you prefer to do is call ‘em copies but sell ‘em as genuine. Probably illegal, but I got more important things to worry about than you ripping off a few unsuspecting tourists.”
“Like the guy on the gurney yesterday?”
He nodded.
“So why question me about my whereabouts?”
“Because you’re a person of interest.”
This conversation had an all-too-familiar ring. I put my mug down. I didn’t need more stomach acid. Maybe Susannah was right about me having the Jessica Fletcher Syndrome.
“How can I be a suspect? All I did was stroll by?”
“You ain’t a suspect. You’re a person of interest.”
Right, I thought. Person of interest today. Suspect tomorrow. “Why am I a person of interest?”
He handed me a folded piece of paper. I opened the fold and saw my name and the address of my shop. At first I thought it was engraved, but a closer look revealed is was written by someone with impeccable handwriting. I looked up at Whit.
He took the paper back and said, “The dead guy had this in the inside pocket of his suit jacket.”
”Oh great. Now it has my prints on it.”
“You know I’m a better cop than that. We already checked it for prints. People think you can’t get prints from paper, but they’re wrong. Sometimes we can. Unfortunately, this wasn’t one of those times.”
I was only half listening. The other half of my attention was focused on why the guy would have been carrying a paper with my name and address on it. The obvious explanation was he was coming to my shop.
Whit had the same idea. “You have any appointments yesterday?”
“Only with Susannah at five at Dos Hermanas. That’s where I was headed when I saw the crowd in the Plaza near the gazebo.”
“None of my business, Hubert, but it seems kinda suspicious you’re still cavorting with that Inchaustigui girl given that you’re shacked up with Sharice.”
Inchaustigui is a Basque name and is pronounced exactly as spelled. Not that that helps. Her family owns a ranch nestled against the Gallinas Mountains. Ten miles north of the ranch is Willard, home to 214 people and the Willard Cantina & Café whose sign boasts “chili with attitude.” There is no town to the south because of the mountains, but there is a wind farm along the ridge line. Its formal name is High Lonesome, which more or less sums up the area.
“We aren’t cavorting, Whit. Never have cavorted. We’re just friends.”
“If you say so. What say you and me take a ride over to the morgue?”
Some of this morning’s coffee and croissant aux amandes bubbled up into my throat. I ignored my acid tummy and took two sips of coffee to force it back down. I asked him why he wanted me to go to the morgue.
“See if you can identify the stiff,” he answered.
“Can’t you just fingerprint him?”
“We already done that. But we didn’t get any matches when we ran them through the system.”
“He didn’t have any ID on him?”
“We think it was stolen.”
“Why?”
“My theory is the murderer took it. Most murder victims are killed by people they know. Makes it harder for us to connect the killer to the victim if we don’t know who the victim is.”
“Or maybe the victim just lost his ID.”
“Don’t think so. His right back pocket was hanging out of his pants.”
“Maybe that happened when he pulled out his handkerchief.” I was stalling, hoping to think up some reason why I couldn’t go to the morgue. Like extreme corpsephobia.
Whit shook his head. “Guy was like one of them faggy male models. Had manicured nails. Snappy dresser. Had on a suit from that expensive Italian guy Emeral Zenia. Cost more than I make in a month. And his shoes were from Salvador Fergaro, another expensive Italian brand.”
“I’m surprised you know so much about men’s fashion from Italy.”
“I don’t. Get my clothes at Suits Unlimited over on Menaul. Hunnerd and fifty a pop. But we inventory everything on murder victims—jewelry, clothes, even moles and warts. He didn’t have neither of those last two. And a guy dresses like that don’t leave a pocket turned out and flapping in the wind. On top of which, his handkerchief was in his lapel pocket, made of silk and neatly folded into three points. And here’s something else that we found in a side pocket of his jacket.” He handed me a pottery shard and asked if I recognized it.
“Sure, it’s a piece from a Mimbres pot.”
“I figured you’d know exactly what it is. Also figured maybe you sold it to the dead guy.”
“I don’t deal in shards,” I replied. And to nudge the conversation in a different direction, I asked how the dead guy was killed.
“The white coat boys will decide the official cause of death, but I found a puncture wound in his back. Looked like someone jabbed him with a screwdriver.”
I winced. “Sounds awful, but not like something that could kill you.”
He stood up and put on his jacket. “You might change your mind when you see the wound.”
“I don’t want to see the wound.”
“So that makes two things you’re gonna see that you don’t want to.”
Chapter 3
I’d accompanied Whit to the morgue several years ago to identify a guy who turned out to be someone I had seen although I didn’t know his name. I wasn’t all that surprised to find him in the morgue. He had paid me twenty-five hundred dollars for appraising his collection of Anasazi pottery and then stolen the twenty-five hundred back. And done a lot worse to other people.
Even though I hated that experience, at least it served to steel me somewhat for this unwanted return. Whit positioned me to the left of one of the big drawers and told a guy who works in the morgue to stand on the other side. The morgue guy’s eyes seemed unfocused. Maybe an asset for a morgue attendant. I briefly wondered what duties he had other than opening drawers, then realized I didn’t want to know.
He slid the drawer out.
I closed my eyes and counted silently to five. I said to myself, one quick glimpse. Then I glanced down, saw the face, and immediately turned to Whit. “Sorry. Never saw him before.”
“You didn’t look long enough to know that, Hubert. You need to make sure, study his face.”
“Already did. I’m a quick study.”
“Okay,” he challenged me, “gimme a description of him.”
“Caucasian, medium complexion, brown hair professionally cut, good skin, no moles, scars or other distinguishing marks. Probably good looking when he was alive.”
“Hmm. That’s a good description. I guess you did look at him. Positive you never seen him before?”
“Positive.”
My good description had been aided a bit. Whit had already told me the guy had no moles or warts. And noticing his hair color was easy because it was the same as mine, and the last haircut he’d had was so good that I noticed it because mine wasn’t. Regarding ethnicity, you can’t help noticing whether someone is black, white, Asian or whatever.”
There was also something else I noticed, and it had me shaking—the dead guy looked familiar.
“Why you shaking, Hubert. Being next to a stiff make you nervous?”
“No. It’s cold in here.”
“Or maybe it’s because you’re withholding something from me.”
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