“Well, it’s a murder mystery, not a philosophy book, but Spinoza does play a part in it. It’s a great read.”
“Okay, I’ll try it.”
“Good. Because if you read only that serious stuff, you’ll become dull, and drinking with you won’t be any fun.”
“I promise to read it.”
“Maybe if you read more mysteries, you would have figured out these pot murders earlier.”
“I doubt it. I read Pythagoras and still couldn’t figure out what the murderer’s angle was.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind.”
“Well, you did figure out the murders. That’s the important thing. Oh, I almost forgot. I looked up the name Berdal on the Internet like you asked me to. I found out what sort of name it is, but I had guessed that before I looked it up.”
“How?”
“Because the sweatshirt he had on in that picture of him we saw in his apartment.”
“I remember that sweatshirt. It said “Badgers.” Are you telling me Berdal is the name of a mammal?”
“No, silly, the Badgers are a football team. They wear the colors that the shirt had—red and white.” Then she told me what sort of name Berdal is.
“How do you know stuff like football mascots?”
“Hubie,” she said, “doesn’t it strike you as interesting that you know nothing about football and I know nothing about cooking?”
“So much for gender stereotyping.”
“Then you won’t mind if I buy you a drink.” She waved for Angie.
61
The crowd in my shop the next evening included Susannah, Carl Wilkes, Tristan, Layton Kent and one of his paralegals, all of whom had volunteered to be there. They were seated in a row of chairs facing my counter.
A second row included the two thugs from firstNAtions, whose names, I had since discovered, were Masho Crow, the big guy, and Dillon Smith, the bowling ball. Sven Nordquist was also present, sitting off to one side, his cerulean eyes staring ahead but aimed at nothing. Crow, Smith, and Nordquist were not volunteers but had been persuaded to come by Whit Fletcher, an imposing figure who can be pretty persuasive when he wants to be.
Of course having a gun and a badge helps.
Whit Fletcher and three uniformed policemen stood behind the chairs near the front door.
Finally, there was Reggie West, whom I had asked to bring some of his ice cream parlor chairs so we would have enough seating.
Cold dry air had spilled down from the Sandias to replace what the sun had heated earlier in the day, but I felt uncomfortably warm.
It was nerves. I hoped to unmask a couple of murderers.
To help me relax, I started with that hackneyed phrase, “You’re probably wondering why I called you all together.”
Tristan and Susannah laughed. The others just stared at me. Instead of being more relaxed, I was more nervous.
I began to lay it out. “A few weeks ago, a man walked into my shop and asked if there was any way for him to acquire the Mogollon pot on display at the Valle del Rio Museum. His name is Carl Wilkes, and he is the gentleman with the beard seated to my left. Mr. Wilkes’ inquiry may strike you as strange, but in my line of business, it isn’t unusual. Evidently, someone helped him acquire the pot because it was subsequently taken from the Museum. As you may have read in the press, the pot has now been returned thanks to Mr. Layton Kent who is seated next to Mr. Wilkes.”
I paused to take a breath and to compliment myself for not “going up on my lines” as they say in the theater.
“Mr. Wilkes’ visit became more intriguing when a second man came to my shop the very next day, a federal agent named Guvelly. He was investigating the theft of a pot just like the one Wilkes had asked about. The second pot had been stolen from the headquarters building in Bandelier National Park. The fact that Guvelly inquired about the Bandelier pot the day after Wilkes asked about a similar pot at the University started me thinking. Those two pots are the only known Mogollon water jugs. It could not be coincidence that one was stolen and someone wanted to acquire the other.”
I had set the scene. That was easy because I was just relating facts. Now I had to explain what I thought about the facts. I wanted to lead them along my path of reasoning so they would agree with me when I sprung the names of the murderers.
“I had to start from the premise that one person wanted both pots. I could think of only three options. The first possibility is a wealthy collector who wants the pots badly enough to pay a high price and break the law even though he will never be able to display them publicly or be acknowledged as their owner. Because I sell ancient pots, I’ve dealt with many reclusive collectors. They have a high aversion to risk. And who can blame them? If you had a display room in your house full of ill-gotten pots, you would be careful who knew about it. If you wanted to add the two Mogollon pots to your collection, the one thing you would not do is hire a different person to get each pot. That doubles the risk. I ascertained that Mr. Wilkes had no participation in the theft at Bandelier, so that ruled out a collector since no collector would approach getting the two pots in that way.
“That brings us to the second possibility: someone stealing the pots for money. But an ancient pot is not like jewelry, which can easily be fenced. The only market for these pots would be the collectors we just ruled out. If those collectors are cautious about who they hire to acquire specimens for them, imagine how much more cautious they would be if a stranger shows up wanting to sell them a pot. There is no telling what sort of trail the stranger may have left. It is extremely unlikely that a collector would deal with an unknown thief.”
“What would motivate a theft other than money?” asked Fletcher.
“More money,” answered Susannah as if I had asked a riddle.
I ignored her and gave a one-word answer: “Politics.”
Susannah looked at me with a “Here you go again” expression. Fletcher furrowed his brow. Layton turned to Sven Nordquist who continued to stare at something no one else could see. Masho Crow and Dillon Smith glanced at each other and smiled.
Reggie West said, “Politics?”
“Yes, politics. Specifically, the politics of groups struggling to overcome the marginalization of Native Americans. Most of you probably remember the American Indian Movement, also known as AIM. Their method was to call attention to the plight of Native Americans by outrageous actions designed to maximize press coverage. They painted Plymouth Rock red, seized Alcatraz Island and held a sit-in at Wounded Knee.”
“You going to blame the Bandelier theft and the murders on AIM?” asked Fletcher sarcastically.
“No. But representatives from two other Native American organizations are here tonight. One is called firstNAtions, and its representatives are Masho Crow and Dillon Smith, the two gentlemen seated to my right. They came to this shop demanding that I relinquish the Bandelier pot. Had they been involved in the theft at Bandelier, they would have known that I didn’t have the pot, so I ruled them out. The second group is called ARRIS, represented by Sven Nordquist, the person in the dark suit sitting off to the side of the second row.”
He was staring at one of my vigas.
“What had been merely a theft became a more serious crime when a person by the name of Hugo Berdal was murdered in a guest room at the Hyatt. I had gone to the Hyatt to see Mr. Wilkes and just happened to be there at the time of the murder. The police at first thought I might be involved, but thanks to their investigative skill, they were able to determine my innocence.”
“Cut the bull, Hubert, and get on with the story,” said Fletcher.
“Mr. Berdal was a security guard at Bandelier. The missing pot was later found in Mr. Berdal’s vehicle, so we can safely assume that he stole the pot. I think we can also safely assume that his murder was related to the theft.”
Everyone seemed to b
e paying closer attention. My nerves had calmed down. Now that they were engaged in the story, I was almost enjoying leading them to its conclusion.
“The question is, why did Berdal steal the pot? I have seen his apartment and know something about his lifestyle. He was not a connoisseur of pottery. One should not speak ill of the dead, but Hugo Berdal was an uneducated loner in a minimum wage job. He probably lacked the imagination to conceive the crime, and even had he done so, he would not have known how to fence the pot. Indeed, he would have been unaware of its value. We can therefore assume he was hired to steal the pot. The question is who paid him to steal it, and the answer is that you did, Sven.”
His eyes left the viga and focused on me. “That’s ridiculous.” His eyes turned a deeper shade of indigo, almost blue-black.
I couldn’t hold his gaze, so I looked at the others. “It must have seemed like a simple plan. A security guard has unfettered access to the pot. He steals it for a fee and passes it to Sven who uses it for political purposes. Given the bizarre politics of ARRIS, it’s difficult to guess what that purpose might be. They could hold a press conference saying they had liberated a Native American artifact from the white man’s museum. When the Park Service sues to have the pot returned, ARRIS is suddenly center-stage in a drama the media would love.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Sven, oblivious to the rest of the room, his eyes still fixed on me.
“Maybe not,” I admitted, “but whatever you wanted the pot for, getting your hands on it proved to be more difficult than you anticipated when Berdal realized he was being played for a sucker. The police found a cash deposit to his checking account for five hundred dollars just days before the pot was stolen, so it’s a pretty good guess that’s what you paid him. Of course Guvelly questioned Berdal. It would be routine for the investigating agent to question the security staff. My guess is that during that questioning session, Guvelly mentioned how valuable the pot was. When Berdal learned the true value of the pot, he realized the five hundred was chump change. So he came to you, Sven, demanding more money. You refused. And why not? Berdal had no bargaining power at that point. What could he do? Return the pot? But then I’m guessing Hugo told you he would take the pot to Guvelly to get the finder’s fee. Guvelly tried to lure me with that fee, so I suspect he mentioned it to everyone in hopes that the thief would return the pot or that someone who knew the thief would take the pot from him and return it.”
Sven folded his arms over his chest. “This is all conjecture.”
“I agree. But this is not conjecture. Carl Wilkes told me you asked him to get the pot from the Museum. That establishes your interest in at least one of the pots. But you didn’t ask him to get the Bandelier pot because you already had someone who could do that. Hugo Berdal was your cousin.”
There were gasps and squeaking chairs as everyone turned to look at Sven. He unfolded his lean arms and held them slightly aloft, taking in the crowd with a casual glance.
“So what? Being related to that philistine is unfortunate, but not a crime.”
“But paying someone to steal is,” I said. “And so is murder. When Berdal told you he was going to see Guvelly, you probably tried to talk him out of it. Maybe you offered him more money. But he was already suspicious of you because you didn’t pay him enough. So you decided to protect your investment by going with him. I’ll wager you told Berdal you would top whatever Guvelly offered. Were you surprised when Hugo agreed to let you go along?”
Sven glared at me.
“Maybe you didn’t know it, but his truck was in the shop, so he needed a ride anyway. That’s probably why he took you up on your offer. So you took him to the Hyatt. The room Berdal and Guvelly had agreed to meet in was registered in the name of Masho Crow, whom you all met a few minutes ago. Guvelly knew he could use the room because he and Mr. Crow were conducting other business that we need not go into here.”
I didn’t want to divert attention from the train of reasoning by bringing up the protection racket that Guvelly was being paid not to see. And anyway, Crow had been granted immunity for his future testimony against Nordquist, so there was no reason to make his criminal activities public.
I could see the finish line. “You and Hugo arrived early for the meeting. Mr. Crow let you into the room, told you Guvelly would be along soon and left.”
“He’s lying,” Sven squealed, his icy self-control crumbling.
Crow turned deadpan to Nordquist, and Sven sunk further into his seat.
“I don’t know what happened in that room,” I continued, “but my guess is you and Hugo got into an argument while waiting for Guvelly. Maybe Hugo drew his gun because he was afraid of you. Maybe you took it from him. Maybe there was a struggle. We’ll never know what happened in that room unless you tell us. But what we do know is Berdal ended up dead and you called 911 and reported the murder.”
He seemed to regain his confidence. “Why would I do that if I murdered him?”
“Because you were hoping to throw suspicion on Guvelly. You didn’t know it wasn’t his room. It seemed like a stroke of genius because if Guvelly was being investigated for murder, he wouldn’t have much time or interest in searching for the missing pot. You would be home free. But even though calling 911 seemed like a good idea at the time, it turned out to be a big mistake. They have your call on tape. I’m sure your voice print will match.”
“This is nonsense,” said Sven. He looked around the room at the others, particularly at Fletcher. “He’s trying to frame me because I’m the one who reported his theft of protected artifacts from an excavation site. It’s a matter of public record. He’s a thief. He was expelled from UNM because of it. You can’t believe anything he says. He steals the heritage of America’s indigenous peoples. He’s a prototypical European, rapacious and genocidal. He’s … he’s …”
“Not listening,” I said. “And neither is anyone else.”
Sven started to rise from his chair.
“Sit down,” ordered Fletcher.
As Sven slumped back into his chair, I looked up to see Miss Gladys Claiborne staring at the tableau through the window. She held up a tray and waved.
I walked to the door and pointed down to the Closed sign. She held the tray up higher and it wobbled slightly. Fearing that she was about to drop the tray, I opened the door and said, “I’m sorry Miss Gla—”
“Heavens to Betsy,” she said walking past me. “Let me put this thing on the counter.” And she did. Then she removed the cloth and revealed a circle of cut-crystal bowls full of dips around a mound of crackers and chips in the middle.
“I saw you were having people over, so I decided to bring some treats,” she said. “This one is spicy Cajun shrimp dip. My late husband just adored it. This one is artichoke and Parmesan. This one is a true original made from onion soup mix, chow-chow and sour cream. It hasn’t got a name, but don’t let that stop you. It’s heavenly. And let’s see, what’s this last one? Oh yes, this is the pecan and peaches dip. Did you ever hear of anything like that? I swear it’s better than it sounds.” Then she looked around the room. “Mr. Schuze, do you want to introduce your guests?”
Before I could do that, Whit Fletcher said, “Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. We’re in the middle of a police matter here, and—”
“Oh, heavens, I can see that. Why just look at those three handsome young policemen. I know they could use some nourishment.”
Whit looked at me and I shrugged. Then he turned to Sven and said, “Sven Nordquist, you are under arrest for the murder of Hugo Berdal. You have the right to remain silent. You …”
It was the first time I had ever seen Miss Gladys Claiborne at a loss for words. All she could manage was, “Oh, my.”
62
When Fletcher finished reading Sven his rights, everyone except Sven and the cop who had cuffed him began sampling the dips,
and it looked as if the meeting might turn into a social event.
But Layton Kent said, “What about the second murder, Detective Fletcher. Are you going to charge Mr. Nordquist with that as well?”
Whit scooped a large dollop of spicy Cajun shrimp dip onto a cracker and said, “Everybody take your seats, and let’s finish hearin’ what our friend Hubert has to say.”
People grabbed one more bite and returned to their seats.
“Mr. Wilkes,” I said, “after Mr. Nordquist commissioned you to get the pot from the Valle del Rio Museum, did you do anything illegal in pursuit of that commission?”
“I did not.”
I remembered when I asked Wilkes at the Hyatt whether Martin told him I dug up pots, he said, “No, someone else told me.” I now realized that someone else was Sven Nordquist.
“What happened after you accepted his offer?”
“The pot from the Museum became available. I reported this to Mr. Nordquist, but he told me his organization had suffered some financial reversals. I reported this back to the person who had the pot at the time. As everyone knows by now, the pot was returned to the Museum.”
“You may be wondering,” I said, “why ARRIS would want both pots. Sven, do you want to enlighten us on that?”
I took his clinched jaw as a no.
“My guess is they thought that having the only two known intact Mogollon water jugs would be just the kind of stunt to put them on the map and bring in support and money. It was their last-gasp effort at survival. There remains now only the matter of the murder of Agent Guvelly.”
“That should be easy,” said Reggie. “Nordquist must have murdered Guvelly. A dead Agent Guvelly can’t defend himself against the charge of murdering Berdal, so Nordquist is off the hook. And no one will suspect him of murdering Guvelly because the two of them have no connection.” He smiled that winning smile of his. “Can I take my chairs and go home now?”
“That’s a good theory, Reggie, but it didn’t work that way. And you of all people know that because you murdered Guvelly.”
Pot Thief Who Studied Pythagoras Page 21
