The Pot Thief Who Studied Pythagoras

by J. Michael Orenduff

  “Illegal margaritas?”

  “This is not a riddle, Hubie. Choose a different drink.”

  “O.K., I’ll play along. But I can’t think of anything, so you get us started.”

  “How about a brandy sour?”

  “What’s in it?”

  “Brandy, lemon juice, powdered sugar and an egg.”

  “An egg? Raw?”

  “Yes.”

  “Try another one.”

  “How about a sidecar?”

  “I’ve heard of that one. What’s in it?”

  “Also brandy, triple sec…oops.”

  “Let’s move away from brandy.”

  “You like Scotch?”

  “No.”

  “Me either. Gin?”

  “Not really.”

  “Me either.”

  “Rum?”

  “I think so. I haven’t tasted rum for years.”

  She signaled to the recondite Angie and ordered two mojitos.

  “Dare I ask?”

  “Just wait and see.”

  Our drinks arrived in highball glasses. A lime wedge fluttered in an effervescent liquid with lots of ice and a few mint leaves. I took a sip. Then I took another.

  “This is pretty good,” I announced.

  “See, Hubie. Change can be good.”

  “You made an excellent choice, Suze. What’s in this libation other than rum and mint?”

  “Sugar, club soda, and the spirit of Ernest Hemingway.”

  “Ah. That explains my sudden compulsion to go to Havana. But what do we eat with it? I don’t think chips and salsa are a good match.”

  “In Cuba, they eat chicharones and fried green bananas.”

  “Hmm. What’s the back up plan?”

  “Peanuts?”

  “Works for me.”

  Angie brought us a bowl of Spanish peanuts, the ones with the red skins on them, and a second round of mojitos; the first round had disappeared rather quickly, but I put it down to the fact that it was mostly club soda.

  “Hubie?”

  “Yes.”

  “Remember how you told me about explaining to Whit Fletcher that you didn’t really dial 9-1-1 to report a body in room 1118?”

  “Yes,” I said and fluttered my eyebrows like Groucho Marx, “and I didn’t call 1118 to report a body in 911 either.”

  “Well, you did dial 9-1-1, but it wasn’t the emergency 9-1-1, it was room 911 which happened to be where Wilkes was staying.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, Hubie, I’ve been thinking about that. Before you told Whit about the room number, he thought you had dialed the emergency number, right?”

  “Right.”

  “But he wouldn’t have thought that unless the emergency 911—the real one—received a call that night.”

  “Right.”

  “So if you didn’t call the real 9-1-1, who did?”

  I guess we all have moments when we feel like imbeciles. I remember once pushing a hundred-pound bed to get it closer to a ten-pound floor lamp so I could see to read. I remember wanting to leave the Bronco running for warmth while I popped into a convenience store and also wanting to lock it so no one would drive away since it was already running. I won’t take that story any further.

  After I had remembered dialing 9-1-1, I was so happy to have discovered Whit’s secret clue that I had let my brain slip into neutral.

  “Geez, Susannah. I had completely overlooked that. Someone called 9-11.”

  “And it had to be someone who knew Berdal had been shot.”

  “Right.”

  “So,” she concluded, “it had to be Berdal or the person who shot him.”

  “It wasn’t Berdal. Whit showed me the coroner’s report. Berdal was shot through the heart. I doubt he lived long enough to make a phone call.”

  “So why would a murderer report his own crime to 9-1-1?”

  “That’s a good question, Suze.”

  50

  The question kept running through my mind as I walked home. Why would a murderer report his own crime to 9-1-1?

  I walked right past my door and down to the end of the block where I turned around and passed my door in the other direction until I reached the far side of the Plaza. I made half a dozen laps until it finally came to me.

  Unless the murderer was using a bizarre means of confession, he wouldn’t call 9-1-1 to report a murder in his own room.

  Whose room was it? I already knew it wasn’t Guvelly’s room. And it wasn’t Berdal’s room either. But so what? I was also fairly certain it wasn’t the room of Jacques Chirac or Tony Blair. The list of people who’s room it was not contains about six billion names and is, in terms of crime solving, utterly useless. What I needed to know was how it might come to pass that a murder would take place in a hotel room where neither the murderer nor the victim was registered.

  Guvelly had told me he was in room 1118. Why would he do that? A scary thought slid out of the shadows and into my brain. I now knew that Guvelly had lied about being registered in 1118. But what if the reason he lied about it was because he wanted to lure me there where the murderer was waiting to ambush me? When Berdal showed up instead, the murderer assumed it was me and shot him.

  Of course almost as soon as the thought took shape, I saw how ridiculous it was. First, Guvelly didn’t know I was going to drop by room 1118. Second, even after a margarita and two mojitos, I could see there was absolutely no reason for Guvelly to want me killed.

  I unlocked my front door, closed and locked it, took two steps in the dark and fell on my face. Guvelly was in my shop for the fourth time. The first two times he had come to discuss my alleged crime. The third time, I had caught him in a digital snapshot breaking in. And this time I had no idea why he was there; it seemed pointless for him to search the place again.

  What I did know was that he wouldn’t be making a fifth visit. He was what I had tripped over. He was lying very still and holding his breath. Either that, or he was dead.

  I wouldn’t have been more scared if Jack Nicholson had chopped through the door with an axe and said, “Heeeeere’s Johnny!”

  I sprinted out the front door and around the building to the alley. I didn’t have the presence of mind to go through my workshop and living quarters. I was shaking so violently I probably wouldn’t have been able to insert the keys into the key holes anyway.

  I was in full panic when I reached the Bronco. I somehow got it started and raced to the University without getting a ticket or running down any pedestrians.

  I parked in a handicapped space. Nothing else was available and I figured having a dead man in your shop is a substantial handicap. I started working my way down the halls of the Fine Arts Building looking in every classroom. I’m in my forties and never run, so I was completely winded, and it occurred to me that if any of the students in the classrooms I peered into had ever had a phone call from a “breather,” they might think he had tracked them down in person.

  I passed up a room that was dark and then stopped. Of course the room would be dark. Susannah was in an art history lecture.

  I stepped quickly inside then shut the door. The professor saw the door open, but she wouldn’t have got a good look at me before I closed the door, so she probably thought I was a tardy student. One with asthma.

  Unfortunately, the same darkness that kept me from being recognized as an intruder also kept me from being able to see Susannah.

  I took a seat in the back and started scanning the room. Even after my eyes had adjusted to the dark, I still couldn’t tell one person from another. I couldn’t help glancing up at the slides, weird abstracts with big swatches of color apparently applied at random. I hadn’t seen any of them before. Then the professor flashed up a slide of a painting I knew. Or some might call it a non-painting. It was White on White by Kasimir Malevich. If you haven’t seen it, maybe you’ve heard of it. It’s a large canvas painted completely white.

  Most people think they could copy a Mondrian or
a Jackson Pollock. After all, how hard is it to paint rectangles or splatter paint on a canvas? But Susannah says it’s harder than it looks. Maybe. But how hard can it be to paint a canvas solid white? Of course, Malevich gets credit for being the first person to think of it. I suspect many others thought of it but let the thought pass them by along with the fame that would have come with it had they beat Kasimir to the punch.

  But I was glad he painted it, because when it hit the screen, the big bright white space was like turning on the lights. I saw Susannah a few rows up and crept up and tapped her on the shoulder.

  “Hubie! What are you doing here?”

  “Meet me out in the hall.”

  I paced outside for a minute or two while Susannah was gathering her books and notes.

  “This better be an emergency, Hubert. Casgrail hates it when people leave her lectures.”

  “It is an emergency. Guvelly’s in my shop.”

  “So what? He’s been there before.”

  “Yeah, but this time is different.”

  She stiffened and said, “Different how, Hubie?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Jesus Christ! I knew you were going to say that.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “How should I know? Shouldn’t we just call the police?”

  “Maybe. But I think he was murdered, and considering the situation…”

  “What makes you think he was murdered?”

  “I don’t know. You think he just had a heart attack while searching my shop?”

  “Did you check for blood or a wound or something?”

  “Are you kidding me? It was all I could do to feel for a pulse, and I only did that after I listened for a minute and heard no breathing.”

  “Did he have a pulse?”

  “I don’t think so; his arm was limp and cold.”

  “Oh, shit. We have to go look, Hubie.”

  I drove us back to Old Town and parked in my space in the alley. We retrieved the flashlight from the Bronco, and I let us in through the back entrance. Everything appeared to be as I had left it, the inner two doors open and all the lights out. We crept up to Guvelly’s body and shined the flashlight on him. There was what appeared to be a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead.

  “I think he was shot,” I said.

  “That’s a pretty small hole,” said Susannah.

  “Big enough,” I replied.

  “I mean it must have been a small caliber weapon.”

  “You’re the ranch girl; I’ll take your word for it.”

  “Help me roll him over.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to see if there’s much blood on the floor.”

  “Oh, God,” I said as much to myself as to Susannah, “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

  Given Guvelly’s girth, he would have been hard to move alive, but as— excuse the expression—dead weight, it was all the two of us could do to turn him over. There was in fact almost no blood on the floor.

  We stood in silence for a couple of minutes. My mind was literally blank.

  “Hubie, he’s already cold and he didn’t bleed on your floor. That means he wasn’t shot here.”

  “Someone killed him and then dumped him here?”

  “There’s no other explanation.”

  “But who? Why? I don’t…”

  “Hubie, we have to call the police. They might suspect you at first, but they’ll be able to tell how long he’s been dead, and they’ll know like I do that he wasn’t killed here, so they won’t suspect you once they start their investigation.”

  “I don’t know, Suze. What if you’re wrong? No offense, but you’re not a forensic scientist.”

  “What’s the alternative? You want to put him in the back of your Bronco and dump him in the river?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Well, do I call the police now?”

  “Wait—the camera! If someone brought him here, I’ll have a picture of it on my laptop.”

  I powered up the device and double clicked on the door icon. But then I saw that the most recent picture was of Doak; I still hadn’t moved the camera out of the kitchen.

  I stood there staring at the screen feeling stupid. But as I stared at the long list of times, something dawned on me. I scrolled down all the way to the first day Tristan had shown me how the software keeps a record of every time the beam is interrupted. I looked at the record from the time before the camera was installed, and I had that feeling you get when you’re trying to prove a theorem in math and you just can’t see how to do it, then suddenly it comes to you and all the rest of the steps fall into place. I explained it to Susannah just to make sure I wasn’t crazy and she got it immediately.

  We decided not to call the police per se. We called Whit Fletcher.

  51

  The story appeared in the paper the next morning. A federal agent had been shot and foul play was suspected. Hubert Schuze had been questioned, but police would not say whether he was a suspect or merely a material witness. Because of the nature of the investigation, no further details were available.

  After reading the paper, I was in no mood for breakfast, so I went directly to the country club where I had been summoned again, and I had another five-dollar cup of coffee.

  Layton folded his paper and placed it on the banquet next to him.

  “I can explain that story,” I said.

  He waved a hand. “I know all about it. At present I’m more interested in another matter. I have it on good authority that you may have had some recent dealings with Brandon Doak.”

  I almost choked on my coffee. “How could you know that?” I asked incredulously.

  “I don’t wish to sound melodramatic, Hubert, but it is my business to know things. I represent a client whose daughter has been ill-treated by Mr. Doak. In the course of our investigations, we had operatives review the security camera tapes from the Valle del Rio Museum. Despite your disdain for museums, you have made two recent trips to ours. And your lady friend also made a recent visit. Our operative also found a security guard who remembers a man who fits your description leaving the Museum late one night in the company of Mr. Doak.”

  “I think it’s Dr. Doak. He has a Ph.D.”

  “Hubert,” said Layton, “it will be plain old Doak when I finish with him. My client is an influential individual, and with my estimable help, we could no doubt make Mr. Doak rue the day he mistreated the young lady. However, my client values his privacy and that of his daughter, so we prefer to find a private way to address the matter. Do you understand, Hubert?”

  I nodded.

  “Excellent. Now please tell me the nature of your recent dealings with Mr. Doak.”

  I told him the entire story. When I had finished, he folded his large linen napkin and placed it next to the newspaper. He sat there thinking. Actually, I think it went beyond simple thinking. I believe he was ruminating.

  He finally spoke. “I assume you still have the pot that was previously in the Museum?”

  “I do,” I said. I appreciated his delicate phrasing.

  “Excellent. Have it delivered to me today. And be at the Foundation ball tomorrow night at eight o’clock sharp. You do have a waistcoat, do you not?”

  “I do not. And I don’t normally attend…”

  “Hubert.” he said, looking straight into my eyes, “this is not an invitation; it’s a summons. You have a theft and two murder charges dangling above you like the sword of Damocles. But after the ball, you, like Cinderella, will be happy you attended.”

  There is no arguing with Layton. I got up to leave and he had one last directive for me.

  “Bring that charming young lady you date. You know the one I mean; she’s from the Inchaustigui family.”

  52

  “‘The young lady you date?’ He called me that?”

  “He did. He also seems to know your family.”

  “How would he know my family?”

  “I don
’t know, Suze. All I can tell you is what he told me: ‘I don’t wish

  to sound melodramatic, Hubert, but it is my business to know things’.”

  “Well, I don’t care if he knows Santxo the Great. I’m not going to some grand ball just because he wants me to.”

  “Who is Santxo the Great?”

  “He was the king of the Basques about a thousand years ago. It was the last time they had any recognizable political homeland. And don’t try to change the subject. That lawyer of yours is a pompous jackass.”

  “Agreed. But I do have to go, and I don’t know who else I could get as a date.”

  “We don’t date, Hubie; we’re friends.”

  “Then come along and be my friend.”

  “You’ll be fine without me.”

  “Suze, I was in the morning paper as a murder suspect. I’ll be lucky if they don’t have me thrown out. You’re the one person I can count on. Besides, I bet you look great in an evening dress.”

  “I do, as a matter of fact. And you’re wearing tails?”

  “I am.”

  “Well, that should be worth the price of admission.”

  “So you’ll do it?”

  “Geez, Hubie. I’ve helped you steal a pot from UNM, kicked down the door to an apartment in Los Alamos, and turned over a dead man in your shop. Going to a grand ball will be a piece of cake.”

  We got Angie’s attention and ordered a second round of cosmopolitans, a drink made with vodka, triple sec, cranberry juice, and limejuice. I had argued that since triple sec was back in stock, we should go back to margaritas, but Susannah was taking this variety business seriously.

  “What do you think of the cosmopolitans, Hubie?”

  “They’re good, but they make me want a turkey sandwich.”

  I told her what Layton had said about Doak.

  “Why didn’t you tell me that at the outset? I’d go to the ball in a barrel if it helped Layton pin something on Doak.”

  “Umm, speaking of what you’ll be wearing…you won’t have on high heels will you?”

  “No, Hubie, I thought perhaps a pair of flip-flops. Of course I’ll be in heels; what else would I wear with an evening gown?”

  “Will they be very high?”

  “Why this sudden… oh, sorry Hubie. They won’t be terribly high, but I don’t think it will matter. You’ll look ten feet tall when they find out what you’ve done.”