“I’m not supposed to tell you that,” she said and winked.
“Well, he believes I stole a pot from the Headquarters Building at Bandelier, but of course I didn’t.”
“Of course you didn’t. And I think it’s very rude of him to talk to your neighbors behind your back. I told him so. I also told him there’s not a reason in the world why you would steal a pot. You can make any pot you want. You are so talented; I do wish you would make some small pieces for me to sell in my shop.”
“I may do that one of these days. And thanks for telling me about Guvelly coming to see you.” I could have said she wouldn’t need to worry about another visit from him now that he was dead, but I didn’t. I just thanked her for the dessert.
She beamed. “I’ll just leave the Chicken Delight. You can have it tomorrow. Mr. Claiborne always said the mark of a good casserole is that it gets better each day. I do declare I think he was right; the flavors seem to strengthen in the icebox.”
15
I switched the Chicken Delight from Miss Gladys Claiborne’s china to a plastic storage container and ran it by Tristan’s apartment; he’ll eat anything.
Then I drove back to Old Town for the cocktail hour, speculating that the Margarita should sit well on the Jell-O since they are both lime-flavored.
A brief shower dampened my windbreaker as I crossed the plaza, but it disappeared as I reached Dos Hermanas as if to remind me of our capricious spring weather.
The freshet dropped the temperature into the fifties, so I kept my jacket zipped up to my neck. The Dom Perignon hadn’t completely worn off, and poor Margarita was languishing on the table unsipped.
Susannah was wearing jeans, a white western shirt with an embroidered yoke, and a blue quilted vest. “So,” she said, “you want to tell me about your new girlfriend?”
I was still thinking about the pending murder charge, and I looked at her blankly. Then it came to me. “Kaylee?”
“She’s attractive in an earthy sort of way, Hubert. I imagine you two had quite a time last night.”
I shook my head. “It was quite a time alright. I had to threaten her with the police, wash her clothes, and feed her. Then this morning she threw a champagne bottle at me.”
“A lover’s spat so early in the relationship?”
“Lover’s spat? Don’t even kid about it. Whit Fletcher was there when she threw the champagne, and he started asking me about her age, because he thought… well.”
She leaned back in her chair and smiled. “I know what he thought, Hubert. And according to Kaylee, he was right.”
“What do you mean?”
“She said she slept with you.”
“What! That’s completely…”
“Calm down, Hubie; I know you didn’t.”
Forget the lingering Dom Perignon; I took a large sip of my margarita. “She actually said that?”
“Actually, she said she slept in your bed, but it was obvious she wanted me to think you were in it with her.”
“Why would she say that?”
“Judging from the marks on her face, she’s had a recent unfortunate relationship with a man. She’s alone and broke with nowhere to go. You take her in, feed her, let her get cleaned up, and give her a warm place to sleep. She doesn’t know how to relate to men except through sex and violence. You’re not violent, so that leaves sex.”
“I thought you stopped majoring in psychology.”
“I did, Hubie, but I didn’t forget everything. Anyway, you don’t have to be a psychologist to realize that she sees you as a good thing, a safe haven, and in her world the only way to make sure she can stay with you is to give you her body.”
“Well, she can keep it. Where is she?”
“I turned her over to Father Groaz.”
“Good move. He’ll know what to do, and I won’t have to deal with her.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that, Hubie.”
I asked warily, “Why do you say that?”
“Because any place he puts her, a shelter for example, is not going to be as appealing to her as you and your house, so when she gets the chance, she’ll leave there and come back to you. It’s like feeding a stray cat, Hubie; they always come back.”
“Oh great.” We ordered a second round, and when it arrived I didn’t even care if it tasted as good as the first; I took a large refreshing gulp of it.
I sat there staring into the fire and then realized after a moment that Susannah was talking.
“…like a fairy tale. We gazed into each other’s eyes over drinks, shared a romantic meal, danced until the orchestra went home…”
Then I remembered that while I had been fending off Kaylee, she had been fending off the L.A. guy.
“…and then went back to his hotel where he started a fire. We laid down in front of it…”
Or maybe not.
“…and he kissed me and then …”
“I’m happy for you, Suze, but I don’t think I need the details of what happened next.”
“Suffice it to say it was great,” she said while her head lolled to one side.
“I suffice,” I said.
“You know what, Hubie; he may be the one,” she said.
“I hope so.”
“Do I detect some doubt, Hubie?”
“I just don’t want you to get hurt. I’m glad the two of you are off to a great start, but he’s in Los Angeles and you’re in Albuquerque, and long distance romances can be tricky.”
She laughed. “How would you know; you’ve never been out of New Mexico.”
“I went to Mexico once.”
“You went to Juarez, part of which borders on New Mexico.”
“But I went through El Paso, and that’s in Texas.”
She sighed. “Hubie, this is not a discussion about your travels or lack thereof. But you’re right about long distance romances. And the great thing is he knows that. He said we need to start slow and see how things progress, so he’ll be stopping here every few weeks as his travel schedule allows, and we’ll see how things develop.”
“Sounds like a good idea.”
I put my finger in my margarita and swirled the ice counterclockwise.
“Geez, Hubie, you don’t sound exactly thrilled about my new romance.”
“Sorry, Suze. Nothing would please me more than you finding the right man. It’s just that I’m a little preoccupied tonight.”
“Still worried about Kaylee?”
“No,” I said and then told her everything that had happened that day.
“Wow. Gravelly is dead?”
“Guvelly,” I corrected.
“Yeah, him. I’ve never known anyone who was murdered, Hubie. I mean you hear about it on the news all the time, but I’ve never actually known a murder victim. Of course, I didn’t actually know Gubelly, but I know you and you knew him, and I guess that’s like what, two degrees of separation?”
“I don’t understand that ‘degree of separation’ thing. But I know what you mean, and that’s what bothers me. If someone you know is murdered, then the murderer might also be someone you know, like you’ve fallen into the wrong crowd.”
“You didn’t fall into Gubelly, Hubert; he came to you.”
“Guvelly,” I said. “Maybe it doesn’t matter. Know the victim; know the perp.”
“Isn’t that a line from Law and Order?”
“I don’t know. Did Dostoevsky write that?”
“It’s a TV show, Hubert.”
“Sorry,” I said. “Here’s what worries me. Obviously they know I was on the eleventh floor because of the camera by the elevator. And maybe they know I was at his door because I might have left fingerprints. O.K., that’s just bad luck on my part. But Fletcher said, ‘We got a little piece of evidence that times you and also ties you in real tight.’ What do you think that might be?”
Susannah drained her glass and thought about it. I signaled to Angie for two more and held the chip bowl aloft to indicate we needed a refill on those as well.
After we were reprovisioned, Susannah said, “Maybe someone looked through the peephole when you knocked and saw you there.”
I liked the initial sound of it and wondered why I hadn’t thought of it. Then I saw the flaw in it.
“That would only implicate me if the person who saw me through the peephole did so at or near the time of the murder.”
“Right.”
“So who would be in the room at the time of the murder?”
“The murderer and the victim,” she said. “Oh, I see what you mean. The victim can’t report seeing you because he’s dead, and the murderer can’t report seeing you without implicating himself.”
“But the peephole theory could still work,” I said.
“You mean if someone in another room looked out?”
“Exactly. I knocked twice, and rather loudly the second time. So if someone across the hall heard the noise and looked out, they might have seen me.”
“So what good does it do knowing that?”
Her question finally jostled my brain into gear, and I felt optimistic for the first time since Fletcher’s visit to my shop. “If someone else saw me in the hall, then they would also see that I didn’t go into the room. That’s exactly what I need to clear myself.”
“But how can you find out what room and who it was?”
“Maybe I can get Fletcher to tell me.”
“He’s a cop, Hubie. Why would he help the suspect?”
“It’s Whit Fletcher, Suze.”
“Oh, of course—money.”
“Exactly.”
I took another gulp of my drink, and I sort of forgot about the Dom Perignon I’d had at lunch, and then there was another round, and ...
16
And eventually I walked somewhat unsteadily back to my shop, let myself in the front door, heard the bong, made a silly joke to myself about a bong in a pot shop—well, I had been drinking—locked the front door behind me, used a different key to unlock the door to my workshop directly behind the store, relocked that, and then unlocked the next door in the series, the one into my living quarters. At least that’s what I thought I did.
People who visit me often remark that my lifestyle seems Spartan, but I actually consider it sumptuous. I have a sturdy pine table with four comfortable chairs, a chaise made of bent willow, and a large chifferobe and chest of drawers for my clothes.
My bed is a single, beautiful in the simplicity of its design and dressed, as you already know, with five-hundred thread-count sheets of Egyptian long-staple cotton, and after four margaritas and a supper of only chips and salsa, it was between those sheets that I longed to be. As tempting as it was simply to remove my shoes and crawl in, I forced myself to take a hot shower, two aspirins, and a large glass of water. When finally my body slid between those millions of tiny threads, I was asleep in an instant.
I awoke many hours later refreshed and famished, thankful for the two benefactors of humankind who invented the margarita and the aspirin. I set the oven on warm and placed a plate inside with two corn tortillas. On top of the stove, I broke two eggs into the frying pan and cooked them over-medium with a pinch each of salt, pepper, and cumin. I placed the eggs over the tortillas, poured some Old El Paso green enchilada sauce over it all, sprinkled queso fresco on top and returned the plate to the oven. While the cheese melted, I extracted a bottle of Gruet Blanc de Noir champagne from the fridge and filled a flute. Why not? Hair of the dog. I then sat at my kitchen table and enjoyed my favorite breakfast: huevos rancheros verde and champagne. Halfway through I recharged my champagne flute. After all, the dog had bitten four times, so I needed four small locks of his hair. I sipped to make sure the second glass was as good as the first. It was.
While I ate, I was reading another article from the anthology about Pythagoras. I wondered what Pythagoras would make of my living space that has no right angles. Everything is slightly off, the walls akilter, the floors atilt. Pythagoras was evidently a man of precision. He and his cult worshipped numbers. The number one was God—perfect unity. Two was the duality of reality—man and woman, hot and cold, wet and dry, etc. He’s even credited with discovering that harmony between plucked strings is a function of their length, so music is also a matter of numbers. I extrapolated on Pythagoras’ thinking and decided my height had a certain harmony to it was well—exactly halfway between five and six feet tall. I don’t think I’m overly sensitive about my height, but I enjoy a little reassurance now and then.
Despite all the precision of his famous theorem and his fixation with numbers, Pythagoras also has a mystical side. He taught that when you arise from sleep, you should smooth out the sheets lest someone use the imprint you left to harm you—sort of the early Greek root of the voodoo theory that you can injure someone by sticking a pin in their likeness. I glanced to my bed and saw my imprint, and in a fanciful mood, I stepped over and smoothed it out. It was then that I heard someone moving about in my store. I looked at my watch and was surprised to see it was just after nine, my normal opening time.
I opened the door into my workshop and heard someone calling my name from inside the shop. Reassured by the familiar voice, I unlocked the door from the workshop to the store and said good morning to Reggie West from next door. He sells gelato, which so far as I can tell is ice cream. It’s even harder to sell during the off-season than pots because it faces the added challenge of being a summertime treat. Reggie has been trying to diversify into chocolates, piñon nut candies and jalapeño lollipops. They’re better than they sound. Even with these exotic additions, I think he’s struggling. Of course the alimony may also be a factor. Did I mention he pays it to two former wives? It’s sad to see a former Marine laid low by family court.
“I noticed your lights were off even though it’s past opening time, so I tried the door and it was unlocked. I thought you might be making pots, so I was just headed back to tell you to turn on the lights and put out the open sign.”
“I thought I locked the door when I came in last night.”
“Had you and Susannah been at Dos Hermanas?”
“Yes, but I didn’t think I was tipsy enough to leave the door unlocked.”
“Well, I had my key to your shop in my hand, but the knob turned when I took hold of it, so I just walked in. Maybe it didn’t quite catch when you turned the key last night.”
I asked him to stay while I looked around to see if anything was missing. I have about a quarter of a million dollars of inventory, retail value, in my shop. Two thirds of it is in display cases or on shelves, and none of that was missing. The rest of the merchandise is in locked cabinets behind my counter and below eye level under the shelves. I checked the cabinet doors, and they were all locked. However, a few of the hinges were slightly loose, and I was afraid someone had opened the cabinets by unscrewing the hinges. I took my key ring out of my pocket and unlocked each cabinet. Nothing was missing.
“Everything O.K.?” asked Reggie. He has a square face, a prominent chin, and a smile that is so wide and bright it seems almost practiced.
“Seems to be. You mind keeping an eye out? In the unlikely case that a customer comes along and wants to see something, just tell them I’ll be back later.”
After washing up the breakfast dishes, I showered, shaved and dressed, and headed out to find Tristan. He’s not actually my nephew; he’s the grandson of my Aunt Beatrice, my mother’s sister. I think that makes Tristan my second cousin once removed. Or maybe it’s my first cousin twice removed. I’ve never been certain about that terminology and neither has Tristan, so I just call him my nephew and he calls me his uncle.
He was asleep of course — it being prior to noon and he being under twenty-five. I took along the only alarm clock that works, a steaming cup of aromatic coffee and a bag of pungent breakfast tacos from Chato’s Diner. During other hours of the day and most of the night, you can reach Tristan on his blueberry? raspberry? … anyway, it’s what you get when you graduate from a cell phone. You can do almos
t anything on it—listen to music, play games, swamp the internet, and even have old-fashioned phone conversations. You can. Tristan can. I can’t. I couldn’t even figure out how to turn it on.
I let myself into his apartment with my key and held the coffee and tacos under his nose until he came to. He stared up at me. “Uncle Hubert?”
“Who were you expecting?” I stuck the food even closer to him.
“What time is it?” he asked groggily.
“It’s time for breakfast.”
He wrapped the blanket around himself like a cape, stood up and stretched. Then he flopped back into bed. At least he was sitting when he landed.
I handed him the coffee and he took a few tentative sips. Then he started in on the tacos, and once the chile and egg combo hit his taste buds, he was awake.
After he finished off the entire bag of tacos, he wiped his mouth on the sheet and reached for what was left of the coffee.
“I could have gotten you a napkin,” I said.
He shrugged. “I’m planning to wash the sheets today.”
“I guess that means you have a date tonight.”
“Yeah,” he said, “I might even dust and vacuum.”
“You don’t own a vacuum.”
“I have a little hand-held one in the car.”
“That one plugs into the cigarette lighter; will the cord stretch all the way in here?”
“No, I rigged up a transformer. Then all I had to do was split the…”
“Tristan?”
“Oh, right. Not interested in technical things.”
“Not usually, but I do have a technical question for you.”
He smiled that big dopey smile the girls all love and said, “You didn’t come over just to bring me breakfast?”
“Well, that too. And also just to visit.” I really like the kid. He’s sort of lost in space sometimes, but he’s honest, smart, unassuming, and really good with older people, and I don’t mean me; I mean really old people. Of course the young girls also like him. With his vestigial layer of baby fat, smooth olive skin, black hair that hangs down in ringlets around his neck, and those bedroom eyes, they find him irresistible.
“Thanks, Uncle Hubert. What’s the question?”
The Pot Thief Who Studied Pythagoras Page 7
