“Come on, Hubie. Don’t even joke about something like that.”
“I’m not joking.”
“That’s crazy, man. I mean, I’m only here because you wanted to borrow a few chairs. I have nothing to do with any of these people, and you accuse me of murder? Why would you do that?”
“Because you did it. After Guvelly accused me of stealing the pot from Bandelier, he went around trying to get evidence from people here in Old Town who know me. I know this because Angie from Dos Hermanas told me about it. So did Miss Claiborne. Guvelly must have talked to you, too, Reggie. But unlike Angie and Gladys, you didn’t say anything to me. That’s because you saw it as an opportunity. You probably figured Guvelly would get a warrant and search my shop for the stolen pot. In order to beat him to the punch, you came into my shop using the key I gave you and searched for the pot.”
“You are out of your mind,” he said.
“You brought a screwdriver and took the hinges off my storage cabinets. When you didn’t find the pot, you put the hinges back to cover your tracks. But you left your fingerprints on them.”
He gave me a big, mean smile. “That’s impossible.”
Four more words. That’s what I was hoping for. Just four more words. And when he said, “That’s impossible,” I thought for sure those four words were about to come out of his mouth: “I wiped them off.”
But he didn’t fall for it. I’ve seen things like that work in movies, but maybe real life is different. But I had a backup plan.
“It doesn’t matter. You are in here quite frequently, so having your prints in my shop wouldn’t be enough to convict you of anything.”
“Damn right,” he said.
“But why would you be in here at 6:57 in the morning?”
No one spoke up, so I answered my own question. “I had a laser beam across my front door that registered the time that anyone passed over the threshold. On the morning after Guvelly first came to see me, someone crossed that beam at 6:57 AM. My nephew, Tristan, installed the device and read the log. He informed me that someone had crossed my threshold at 6:57 and that the next signal break was recorded at 9:22 that same morning. I originally thought that 9:22 break was you coming to see me, Reg. But I later remembered an airplane pilot telling me the most important thing about flying was that the number of landings and takeoffs should always be equal. In a shop, the number of comings and goings must also be equal. There was nothing between 6:57 and 9:22. So, whomever came in at 6:57 had to go out at 9:22. And that was you, Reggie.”
“I’m sorry for you, my friend,” said Reggie, “you seem somewhat confused.”
“Maybe you’re right.” I paused for a few seconds then asked, “Who do you think killed Guvelly?”
The smile he gave me was poisonous. “Maybe you did. After all, the body was found in your shop.”
Yes! I thought to myself with jubilation. Sometimes these tricks do work. Sometimes the bad guys do hang themselves.
“How do you know where the body was found?” asked Fletcher.
Reggie’s eyes clouded as he thought about what he had said. “I read it in the paper,” he tried.
“It wasn’t in the paper,” said Whit.
We all sat there in silence while Reggie considered his options. Finally he turned to me. “You’re a sniveling little wimp, Schuze. While I was off defending this country, you were living the good life as a student. You’re a lazy, undisciplined weakling living off pots you dig up because you’re too lazy to do any honest work.”
The cops had moved around him, but he continued his trade. “I tried to help you, man. But what do I get? Treachery. Well, listen up, wimp. You may have the upper hand now, but I’m coming after you, man, and I’ll grind you in the dirt like a worm.”
I have to tell you, I was scared even though the uniformed policemen had cuffed him.
63
“Wow, Uncle Hubert. You were like Sherlock Holmes tonight.”
Tristan was eating the dip made from the onion soup mix and enjoying a beer from my fridge.
“Sherlock Holmes,” I said, “lived in rented rooms and took drugs.”
“Whatever. And on top of that, you’re a local hero. I can’t believe it. My uncle is in the newspaper as a murder suspect and a pot thief, and all my friends are calling me to say how cool it is that you’re my uncle.”
I shrugged.
“But you didn’t kill anyone, and you didn’t really steal anything, did you?”
“Well,” I said, “I certainly didn’t murder anyone. As far as the theft issue, that sort of depends on your definition of—”
“I knew it. And you recovered the pot that was stolen from the Museum, and they made a lot of money at the auction to help students.”
“That’s true,” I admitted.
“What’s that music?”
“Billie Holiday.”
“I like it.”
“You never told me about the girl you took to that alternative to music concert.”
“Alternative music, not alternative to music.”
“Right.”
“Selena. I’m not seeing her anymore.”
I dipped a chip into the pecan and peaches dip. Miss Gladys was right. It was better than it sounds. Then I decided I had to have a beer.
Tristan said, “Aren’t you going to ask me why?”
“I didn’t want to pry.”
“It’s not prying. I like having you to talk to about these things.”
“This isn’t going to be a birds and bees discussion, is it?”
He laughed that deep laugh that seems to come up from his stomach and has a tremolo to it. “I hope not.”
“Whew,” I replied.
“She just came on too strong. I was cool with her asking me to go to the concert. I don’t think guys always have to do the asking. But all night long she kept asking me questions about myself, and she didn’t pay much attention to the music. She’s really good looking, and I think she’s smart, but …” His voice trailed off.
“Did you see her again after the concert?”
“Yeah. I decided it was my turn, so I took her to a movie. Afterwards we went for coffee, and while I was trying to talk about the movie, she was talking about herself—what she likes and doesn’t like and all, and the same things about me—what do I like, what do I not like. I guess that’s normal. When you date someone, you want to get to know each other.”
“Tristan, getting to know someone isn’t a matter of cataloging what they like and don’t like. You don’t tell people who you are. You show them. Dates are opportunities to do things—hear music, see movies, go rafting. You get a feel for someone by seeing them do things and doing those things with them. It’s okay to ask questions, of course. But when it comes to ‘show and tell,’ dating is more about showing than telling.”
“Wow, Uncle Hubert. I guess wisdom does come with age. You really put your finger on it. I wanted to do things with her, but she just wanted to interview me.”
“Well, I’m pushing middle age and still live alone in the back of a shop, so I don’t think I qualify as an expert on relationships. Who are you seeing now?”
He took out his i-thingy and pretended to scroll through a long list.
“I think I’ve run out of memory,” he said.
“I can see that not hitting it off with Selena has you really broken up.”
He laughed. “Thanks for the talk. And thanks for including me tonight. It was a radically new experience for me. And it’s also good to see bad guys get caught.”
“Yes, and as you said, the University got a scholarship out of the deal.”
“But the scholarship is limited to art students. That’s a real bummer. I mean art scholarships are so easy to get. Everybody wants to help the starving artists. But does anyone ever stop to think why they’re starvi
ng? It’s because they’re not providing a good or service people really need. I mean, there’s an artist on every street corner. But everyone needs help with their computer, don’t they? There are millions of people like you, Uncle Hubert, who don’t know the first things about computers—no disrespect intended—and they could use the help of a college graduate professional. But do we have enough of them? No. And why? Because there’s not enough scholarship money for computer majors. It all goes to art students. And on top of that—”
“Tristan?”
“Yes?”
“How much do you need?”
64
I guess I don’t have to tell you where Susannah and I were the next night.
“That was some confrontation last night,” she said.
“I’m just glad the cops were out in force. I think Reggie would have killed me with his bare hands.”
“Which reminds me. I have some questions. You told me Tristan speculated that the person who came into your shop at 6:57 must have stepped over the beam when he left. That could still be true, couldn’t it?”
“Not really. If that had happened, there would have to be two later interruptions that morning, one when Reggie came in and one when he left. But there was only one, the one at 9:22.”
“Okay. But when Reggie searched your place and didn’t find the Bandelier pot, why didn’t he just take some of the other stuff? After all, you have a lot of valuable pots.”
“True. But like Hugo Berdal, he wouldn’t know how to fence them. And he probably didn’t want to risk it. But if he could find the pot Guvelly had described to him, he knew he could get the finder’s fee.”
“But when he didn’t find that pot, why kill Guvelly?”
“I’m not sure. My guess is that Guvelly and his colleagues had me under surveillance. Maybe they saw Reggie sneak into my place in the middle of the night and thought he was involved somehow. Guvelly confronted him. They argued. Reggie has quite a temper.”
“Do you think we’ll ever know?”
I shrugged. “Maybe Reggie will tell all to get a better sentencing deal.”
“Why did the two firstNAtions goons come to threaten you?”
“Crow and Smith had the cooperation of Guvelly to run their protection racket. So he could order them to scare me in the hope that I would crack and give them the pot.”
“But you didn’t have the pot.”
“Yeah, but they didn’t know that.”
“What will happen to them?”
“Nothing. Crow and Smith were granted immunity in exchange for testifying that they saw Nordquist and Berdal arrive together at the Hyatt. They also agreed, as part of the deal, to end their protection racket.”
“You think they will?”
“No, but they’ll probably move it somewhere else.”
We waved to Angie for more salsa and chips.
“You must be feeling pretty good right now,” Susannah said to me.
“I do. The pots are back where they belong, the bad guys are in jail, and Kaylee and Arturo have found true happiness.”
“But Consuela is no better.”
“It’s real life, Suze. Not everything gets resolved. But she and Emilio seem as happy now as they were before she got sick. Maybe true love does conquer all.”
“I still believe that,” she said. Her eyes were moist but there was a smile on her face.
“I have something for you,” she said and handed me a cardboard tube.
I removed the end cap, extracted a piece of paper, unrolled it and saw a fascinating drawing. Two thin lines captured the look of a desert horizon. Two vertical stylized arms met at that horizon, and their hands wound around each other like a double helix. The double helix formed a pot. The entire thing hinted at the Zia sun, New Mexico’s symbol. The lines were simple yet highly suggestive of the Southwest.
I looked up at Susannah. “This is great work. Did you draw this?”
“No. My friends drew it. That’s your new logo.”
I had forgotten all about the logo project. “It’s fantastic.”
“You really like it?”
“More than I can say.”
“So you’ll use it for your business?”
“Absolutely.”
“Well,” she said, “now that you’ve seen the logo, does any name for your shop leap to mind.”
I looked at the hand coming up from the soil and thought of the spirits of the ancient potters.
“Spirits in Clay,” I announced.
“That’s a great name. I’ll tell my friends about it.”
I hesitated a few seconds then asked, “Feeling better today?”
“Not much. But at least I’ve stopped crying every five minutes. Are my eyes still bloodshot?”
“They are, but the swelling in your nose seems to have gone down.”
“Thanks a lot.” She slumped back in her chair and looked at me. “You think either one of us will ever find that certain someone?”
“You will, Suze. I’m certain of it. As for me, well, Kaylee may have been my last shot.”
She laughed and choked briefly then laughed again.
“I’ve got something here I think you’ll like,” I said.
I handed her a section of the Los Angeles Times. I had circled the article with the headline that read Local Professor Arrested for Art Theft.
As she read she kept glancing up at me and her look evolved from incredulous to pleased. “I can’t believe this. The only time that bastard was ever in the Valle del Rio was when I gave him a private tour after his lecture. And while I was being such a great host and fawning student, he was stealing a Remington right under my nose.”
“Maybe not,” I said. “Read the related story right below.”
“Art Historian’s Troubles Inflate,” she read aloud. The story read, “Kauffmann Williburton, the well-known art historian accused of stealing a Remington bronze from a museum in New Mexico, is experiencing troubles on another front as well. The police search of his house turned up not only the missing Remington under the couch in the living room but also an inflatable woman under the bed in the master bedroom. The police took no action since possession of an inflatable woman is not illegal in California, but Mrs. Williburton is suing for divorce.”
“Hubie! That’s Berdal’s woman.”
I just smiled.
“And you took the Remington when you were switching pots with Doak.”
Another smile. But nothing to match Susannah’s. Then she started laughing, and I started laughing with her. And we both kept laughing as we waved for Angie.
Turn the page to continue reading from the Pot Thief Mysteries
1
If you’re looking for a hero, you’ve come to the wrong place. I lack the iron will and steel nerves the job requires.
I lead a calm and contemplative life, selling pots by day and digging them up by the light of the moon. I used to excavate in broad daylight. We called it treasure hunting in those days. Then Congress passed the Archaeological Resources Protection Act, turning me into a pot thief and my day job into my night job.
My shop is in Albuquerque’s Old Town where I get about as much human contact as I do out in the dunes. The price tags on my merchandise—at least four digits to the left of the decimal—create long dry spells between buyers. Few opportunities to chat with customers, even fewer to process their MasterCards.
Technically, I’m a criminal, but I don’t think what I do is wrong. I have scruples. I never dig on reservations or private land. Let the Indians and the landowners do what they please with their patches of earth. I stick to public land. I figure I’m part of the public, so why shouldn’t I have the right to prospect on our land?
I love being alone under the bright desert stars with only the spirits of ancient potters for company. I’m a sucker for the lure of
buried treasure, the thrill of the hunt, the satisfaction of the find. It’s hard to describe the pleasure I feel when I find a long-buried pot, overwhelmed by knowing I’m the first person to touch it in a thousand years. Sometimes I think it might be better than sex.
But how would I know that? I’ve been living like a monk. It’s not easy meeting women when you’re on the wrong side of forty-five, only five six and live in the back of your shop.
I’m not abstemious in other matters. I enjoy margaritas at Dos Hermanas Tortilleria most every weekday with Susannah Inchaustigui. Don’t worry about pronouncing her family name—it’s Basque. Our watering hole is romantic in a rustic way, but it doesn’t help my chastity thing. She and I are just friends. But it sure puts an end to my silence. Susannah’s quite the talker. Although we discuss anything that comes to mind, the conversation frequently turns to her love life and my illegal adventures, both of which fate seems to delight in contorting.
On this particular evening, the chartreuse emulsion in our glasses had sunk perilously low as I told Susannah about some pots I wanted. They were not on public land. They were stashed in the Rio Grande Lofts. With my constitution, just the thought of skulking around a building full of people sets my stomach churning. Which makes it all the more difficult to understand why I broke in there seven times, got trapped in its basement and seduced in its elevator.
I jiggled the ice around in my glass hoping to generate another sip and said, “The longer I looked at the place, the more it resembled Fort Knox.”
“What’s Fort Knox look like, Hubie?”
I shrugged. “I have no idea.”
“Then how do you know Rio Grande Lofts looks like it?”
“It’s just an expression, Suze, like ‘solid as the Rock of Gibraltar’.”
“I don’t suppose you know what that looks like either, do you?”
She knew I didn’t because I don’t travel. “I’ve seen pictures of it in insurance ads.”
“But you’ve never seen a picture of Fort Knox?”
“They don’t advertise. Can we get back to the point I was trying to make?”
Pot Thief Who Studied Pythagoras Page 22
