The Pot Thief Who Studied the Woman at Otowi Crossing

by J. Michael Orenduff

  I nodded.

  “Since the poison was likely from Hawaii, and the Hawaiian sling is a small harpoon that can be concealed in a purse, I figured I was on the right track. So I searched the missing persons list in Hawaii and found an article about a prominent former citizen of Hilo who disappeared. And the pictures of him in the newspapers looked a bit like you. I turned my research results over to Whit who contacted the Hawaiian authorities. And guess what?”

  I was numb. I just turned up my palms.

  “They got an exact match. Gurney Guy is the missing Hawaiian.”

  “And he’s related to me?”

  “Must be.”

  “But how?”

  “I don’t know. But now that we know who he is, it should be easy to connect the dots.”

  “What if I don’t want the dots connected?”

  “Too late. This is a murder investigation. They aren’t going to stop looking for the murderer just because you don’t want to know who Gurney Guy is.”

  We talked a bit more. Actually, she did most of the talking. I was in a stupor. We finished our Margaritas. It was freezing outside. She put on her puffy jacket, and I put on my handmade horsehide jacket. We were about halfway across the Plaza when I felt something hit my lower back.

  “Ouch!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I think some kid threw a rock at me. I felt it hit my back.”

  Susannah jerked up my jacket and shirt and looked at my lower back. “It didn’t penetrate, but take that coat off carefully and do it now. And call the cops!” she added as she raced away.

  I’ve found it’s best always to do what Susannah asks, so I scurried back to Spirits in Clay and dialed 911.

  The Plaza was pristine. When it gets real cold in Albuquerque, it also gets quiet, like the air is too thick to convey sound waves. But the sirens were loud enough. And when I pointed the cops in the right direction, they sprinted away and found Susannah standing over the trussed body of a woman.

  Remember I said she can ride horses, rope goats, and castrate calves? She had employed that middle skill to truss up my assailant with the line from the Hawaiian sling that she had fired at me.

  Chapter 31

  Susannah, Charles, and I were in Whit’s office.

  Whit said, “You called him the dead guy, Gurney Guy and Floss Man. His real name was Frank Wilde. His father was Garner Wilde who attended Western New Mexico University in the late sixties on a basketball scholarship. Like you, Hubert, he was short. But unlike you, he was athletic. Led his high school team to the Hawaii state championship. But being as how he was short, the only school that offered him an athletic scholarship was Western.”

  Susannah said, “How would Western even know about him as a high school kid in Hawaii?”

  Whit said, “Western back then was in the Pacific West Conference. One of the other schools in that conference was The University of Hawaii at Hilo. So the basketball team at Western travelled to Hilo every year, and coaches are always looking for talent.”

  “I didn’t even know Western played sports,” I said. “And I thought The University of Hawaii was in Mānoa.”

  “That’s the big campus,” Whit said. “They play in the same conference as the Lobos. The little Hawaii campus at Hilo plays in Division 2. Nobody knows much about them because they ain’t on TV. Of course you don’t know that ‘cause you don’t have a TV.”

  “And wouldn’t watch sports if I did.”

  “Can we get back to the murder?” asked Susannah

  Charles said, “While Garner was at Western, he fathered a child with a local girl. Then he went back to Hawaii and made a fortune in fish futures.”

  “What are fish futures?”

  Charles said, “A form of commodity trading. He would speculate about fish prices based on fishing conditions and then buy or sell them before they were even caught.”

  “Anyway,” said Whit, “Garner had two other children in addition to you, Frank and Bette. You already know how they’re related to you.”

  “Half siblings,” I said.

  “Right. And they were his only heirs because his wife died in an auto accident when the children were very young. What we don’t know is the identity of your birth mother.”

  I nodded.

  “The woman we got in custody thanks to Miss Inchaustigui is Bette Wilde. She’s the one who killed her brother.”

  “Why?”

  “Speculation at this point,” said Charles, “but agents in Hawaii have been interviewing people, and we think we have it pieced together. Like Whit said, Garner became extremely wealthy. His two legitimate children took divergent paths. Frank enjoyed being the son of a rich man. He attended private schools, took a degree in Italian literature at Stanford, lived in Hilo but spent a lot of time in Florence, Italy. Bette became a playgirl, got into drugs and would have gone to jail had her father not had money and contacts. As far as we can determine, her only job skill was pickpocketing. I say that because she was arrested for it three times and, as in the drug charges, her father managed to keep her out of prison, although she did spend a few weeks in jail. She was basically waiting for her father to die so that she could get her inheritance, which—according to people who knew her—she would have burned through in a year or two. Garner Wilde died in November. His will left a third of his fortune to—and I quote—‘the child I fathered in New Mexico if he or she is still alive and can be located’. We have a long chain of emails between Bette and Frank after their father died. She argued they had no reason to go looking for a lost heir. Frank said they had to honor the will. She tried to change his mind but finally appeared to give up. No more emails until December when Frank told Bette he had hired a private eye to track down the missing half-sibling, and the detective had located him in Albuquerque. Bette agreed to meet him in Albuquerque so they could both meet you, Hubie, and tell you the good news. Evidently, her plan was to prevent you from ever finding out.”

  I looked at Charles then at Whit. “How would a private eye be able to figure out something neither the Albuquerque Police nor the FBI could figure out?”

  Whit bristled slightly at the implied insult, but Charles answered. “First off, he knew the unknown child had been conceived in Silver City. Something we had no way of knowing at that point. Second, a private eye can get certain info more easily because he or she doesn’t have to follow any rules. Because New Mexico adoption records are sealed, even the FBI would have to go to court to try and gain access. But a private eye can just bribe a clerk or even break into the records office at night.”

  I thought back to Ms. Maddus at the Silver City records office. I didn’t like to insult her even if only in my own mind, but I wondered if she might have given me a copy of my birth records in exchange for a crisp hundred dollar bill.

  I looked at Susannah. “You really did solve this murder.”

  “I did.”

  “So why would Bette use such an odd weapon?”

  Susannah said, “Easy. She came here from Hawaii. You can’t stick a gun in the trunk of your pickup and drive to the mainland. But you can pack a vial with less than 3.5 ounces of poison and the components of a Hawaiian sling in a suitcase and it’ll all pass right through security. Then after she was here, all she had to do was sharpen the stick and dip it into the poison.”

  “And it’s just coincidence that she and her brother were in the Old Town Plaza at the same time?”

  “How many times have I told you there are no coincidences in murders? She agreed to go with Frank to give you the news. Then, as they were walking across the Plaza, she said her shoe was untied or her panties were riding up or some other excuse to drop back a few paces. Then she pulls the sling from her purse and lets fly.”

  “Why didn’t we see it on the video?”

  “She probably activated the Hawaiian sling just before the
video started. She may have been just finishing reeling it in as we see him stumble. But because she is behind him, we don’t see her in full until he falls.”

  Charles said, “Seems obvious that Bette killed Frank to prevent you from getting a share of the inheritance. And she almost killed you. It will take a long time to sort all this out. But it looks like you might end up with the entire estate. Bette will get nothing if she is found guilty of murdering Frank because a felon cannot benefit from a crime. Frank can’t inherit because he’s deceased and has no heirs and no will.”

  “I think there may be another person related to me who should get a share,” I said.

  They all stared at me.

  I handed an envelope to Charles. “One more DNA test, please.”

  Then I asked Whit if the pot shard he found in Frank’s pocket was evidence.

  “Nah,” he said, “It’s got nothing to do with his murder. You want it?”

  I said I did, and he gave it to me.

  Chapter 32

  I walked west on Central then turned north onto the Rio Grande levee and walked a couple of miles sorting out thoughts and emotions. There’s something timeless and soothing about the river. I remembered another thing Edith Warner wrote: “My friend was wrong who said that this country was so old it does not matter what we Anglos do here. What we do anywhere matters but especially here. It matters very much. Mesas and mountains, rivers and trees, winds and rains are as sensitive to the actions and thought of humans as we are to their forces. They take into themselves what we give off and give it out again.”

  Thinking about myself as part of the eco-system, so to speak, made individual genetics seem a lot less important. I walked back downtown to the condo and told Sharice the entire story.

  The next morning, we went to see Father Groas, the priest at St. Neri Catholic Church in Old Town. I consider him to be my spiritual advisor.

  I don’t know what he considers me to be. Probably the weird misfit who seeks his advice.

  He greeted us in his Eastern European accent. “Gude marning, Youbird and Sharize. To what do I owe the plahsure of you visit?” He sounds like a refugee from the Cold War.

  “Sharice has consented to marry me. We’d like you to perform the ceremony.”

  “Congratulations, Youbird. I wooed be happy to do so. Do you booth plan to convert to Catholicism?”

  We declined the offer and reminded him I’m a backslid Episcopalian and Sharice was raised in the same denomination, but she refers to it as ‘Anglican’.

  Father Groas smiled again and said, ”Catholic Light. Very close, but we cannot use the church for the wedding.”

  “How about the gazebo in the Plaza?”

  “Pearfect.”

  We went to the courthouse and got a license. I dropped Sharice off at work since she was already late, lunchtime actually.

  I bought a dozen sunflowers. I went to Treasure House and asked John to recommend a murder mystery. He handed me a copy of Herbie’s Game by Tim Hallinan.

  “This book won the Lefty for best mystery a few years back. If you’ve finally decided to read a murder mystery, this is a great one to start with.”

  “I don’t plan to read it. It’s a gift for Susannah.”

  “She’ll love it. And I know she hasn’t read it because she buys her mysteries here.”

  I went to La Placita and gave the flowers and book to Susannah.

  “what’s the occasion?”

  “Just thanking you for chasing down my assailant. And for being a friend all these years. And also apologizing for making fun of your theory that murder mysteries reflect real life. I was wrong. Your murder mystery reading actually solved a real murder.”

  “I love Hallinan’s books. His protagonist—Junior Bender—says burglaries have to be planned backwards.”

  “What does that mean?

  “It means the first thing you plan is the last thing you do; namely, getting out of the place you burgled. You should keep that in mind.”

  “I’m not a burglar.”

  “So you always say. But you’ve broken into lots of places.”

  “Always with good reason.”

  “Another thing you always say.”

  “Here’s something I don’t say often enough. I love you, Susannah,”

  “I know.” She hugged me and kissed me on the cheek. “I love you too, Hubie.”

  I returned to my closet office and read from Peggy Pond Church’s book.

  When Edith told Tilano that she came from Philadelphia his eyes had lighted up. “Philadelphia!” he said. “I’ve been there. When I came back from Europe, I stopped in Philadelphia for a while. Then I came home to the pueblo.” With only a little coaxing he unfolded the story she was to hear so often. A group of Indians from San Ildefonso had gone to Coney Island one summer to display their dances. There Bostok, the animal trainer, had seen them and asked them to go with him on tour. “Paris was the best place,” Tilano said. “We stayed there a long time—maybe a month or more. The people liked us and clapped lots when we came out on the stage. When we walked on the street, they crowded around us and asked, ‘Are you American Indians?’ Soon we learned some words of their language and could answer them. I do not know exactly when it was that Tilano came to live permanently at the little house. In his own way he was as much alone as Edith. His wife had died in childbirth, in the second year of their marriage. What wonder that she at last suggested that he come and live there instead of driving to and from his daily tasks across the bridge? What wonder that he agreed to come, saying only, “You need a man to help you.”

  The story comforts me.

  Charles arrives.

  “The hair you gave me is from your birth mother, right?”

  “Right.”

  “The DNA is consistent with that. Anything else you need?”

  “No.”

  Tears are coming down my cheeks. He puts his big hand on my shoulder. “Anything I can do?”

  I shake my head.

  He says, “My father taught me that a man should always be guided by the three M’s—morals, mind, and muscle. In that order. You might want to give it some thought as you decide what to do.”

  I nod. He leaves. He doesn’t ask who my birth mother is. Maybe he knows the hair came from the brush in the bathroom at the small adobe in the south valley where I went to the bathroom for the purpose of finding it. He usually knows everything.

  Maybe not this time.

  Chapter 33

  Maybe it was Charles Webbe saying a private detective could “break into the records office at night.” Or maybe it was Susannah telling me that Junior Bender planned burglaries backwards.

  More likely it was the combination of both that made me decide to break in to the records office in Silver City. And I did start with a plan of how to get out of the place after I got the two things I came for—my birth records and verification of what I thought I knew.

  The exit plan was simple—wait until Sharon Maddus opened in the morning and then just walk out the unlocked door when she was back among the files. Her disorganized approach to her duties made the plan virtually foolproof.

  The same could not be said about getting in. My only burglaring skill—loiding a spring lock—is useless in the presence of the dual cylinder deadbolt on the front door. So I waited until Maddus was in the back and entered as silently as possible late in the afternoon, my shoes in my backpack. I padded across the room and into the men’s room.

  I heard Ms. Maddus lock shortly after five. But I remained in the men’s room until midnight, at which time I was confident Copper Street would be dark and deserted. I found my way to the files and begin searching.

  It took only twenty minutes to find the cabinets with the birth records. It took over two hours to find mine. Searching the files was exasperating because I was using a penl
ight. I held it in my mouth because it took both hands to open the files.

  The organization of the files was even more exasperating. As I expected, they were organized by date. But nothing was listed on my birthday. A baby dubbed Ronnie B. Harvey by his parents was born on May 4, 1969. Maybe the middle initial stood for ‘Big’; he was a whopping eight and a half pounds. David R. Blanco was born on May 6, 1969, roughly a pound and a half lighter than Ronnie. No one was born on my birthday, May 5. At least not in Silver City.

  My first thought was a filing error. So I searched all of May, 1969. Didn’t take that long, and didn’t yield any record of me being born. So I did the whole damn year of 1969. Still no me.

  I thought about all the files. I took one out at random and read it all the way from top to bottom. Several times. Until I finally focused on one of the entries on the form: ‘Father’s name’. I went through all the 1969 records again. Every baby had a father listed.

  But my father might not have been listed. The wording of his will—“the child I fathered in New Mexico if he or she is still alive”—indicated he was probably not there when I was born. Maybe the ‘Father’s name’ field on my record was blank or read ‘unknown’.

  So I started looking in different cabinets until I finally located the records of births where the baby had been put up for adoption. We were segregated from the babies from traditional married couples. Probably because our records are confidential. As you would expect, there weren’t many of us. I was one of only three in 1969. The ‘Father’s name’ field on my record was not blank as I had guessed. It read ‘Garner Wilde’. No wonder the private detective Wilde’s son had hired was able to track me down.

  Whatever entry might have been in the “Mother’s name” box was obscured by a swath of black ink. A handwritten note next to the box read: “Available only by court order.” I positioned the penlight behind the paper, but the name under the black-out remained illegible.