“Just a merchant. I have a shop in Old Town.”
After Linda left, Sharice mimicked me. “Just a harmless merchant.”
“I didn’t say harmless.”
“You said it with your tone. But it won’t work. She’ll probably Google you and discover you’re a notorious pot thief.”
“No, the only people doctors Google are patients. They want to make sure you have enough money to pay them.”
24
I’ve never worried much about what people say about me. Which is beneficial for a guy who’s been in the paper a few times as a murder suspect.
So it surprised me that I felt apprehensive when Susannah and Sharice went to the restroom together at Dos Hermanas just after we all arrived Monday a little after five.
A crazy thought popped to mind. Maybe they were talking about what Glad had cautioned me about—the appearance of impropriety, living with one woman and having cocktails with another.
I banished the thought. This is America in the twenty-first century, not Victorian England or Saudi Arabia. Men and women at a bar together is not scandalous.
I assume women escape to the restroom to talk woman-to-woman.
When they returned from the restroom, Susannah gave me a kiss on the cheek.
“What’s that for?”
“Sharice told me about the gown episode.”
Angie arrived to take our order. “Two margaritas, one without salt, and a glass of Gruet?”
“Do you have pomegranate juice?” asked Sharice.
“Yes. You want a Pomarita? We make them with agave syrup. They’re delicious.”
“That does sound good, but I don’t drink spirits. I’d like a Kir Royale with pomegranate juice instead of cassis.”
Susannah ordered a Pomarita.
I ordered a margarita with extra salt on the rim.
“Boring,” said Susannah.
“Predictable,” said Sharice.
“Hey, I got extra salt. Why this sudden urge to change drinks?”
“Pomegranate helps prevent breast cancer,” said Sharice.
“A girl needs to use all the arrows in her quiver,” said Susannah.
I guess I knew what they were talking about in the restroom. It wasn’t me.
The whizzbang special mammography machine with all its multiple angles and special magnification had failed to produce an image clear enough to determine the nature of the lump.
Lump.
An ugly word.
My Oxford English Dictionary/doorstop says it derives “from a Germanic base meaning shapeless” and is something with an “indiscriminate mass shape.” It is sometimes used to describe a “heavy, ungainly, or slow-witted person.”
Neither Sharice nor any of her parts can be described as indiscriminate, and she is certainly neither heavy nor ungainly.
I don’t like the word lump. I don’t even like words that rhyme with it: chump, dump, grump, rump, slump.
I decided to bump lump from my vocabulary.
“To your health, ladies,” said Angie as she placed the Pomarita and Kir on the table.
She looked at me. “Here’s your standard margarita with too much salt.” Then she flashed that lightning-bolt smile and swirled away in her broomstick skirt.
“So what’s next?” asked Susannah.
“I’m getting an ultrasound tomorrow morning.”
Susannah looked at me. “You’re going with her, right?”
It was more a command than a question.
“Absolutely,” I said, and turned to Sharice, “I know you’re having an ultrasound. What I don’t know is exactly what that is.”
“It’s like an X-ray,” said Sharice, “except it uses sound waves instead of radiation.”
“Will we need to wear earplugs?”
“No, silly. The sound waves are called ultra because they’re very high-frequency. A dog might hear them, but not a human.”
“Good thing Geronimo isn’t going with us. He’d probably howl.”
25
After the ultrasound Tuesday morning, Dr. Rao told us the image was just as inconclusive as the mammogram and decided to do a fine-needle aspiration, which she explained involves inserting a very slender needle into the area of concern and drawing out a small amount of tissue, which is then examined under a microscope.
Forget the phrase very slender. Having a needle of any size plunged into your breast cannot be pleasant. I got woozy just thinking about it.
I didn’t tell Sharice I hate needles. I held her hand while Dr. Rao did the needle biopsy, but I didn’t look.
If someone stuck a needle that deep into my chest, I’d go home and curl up in the fetal position under my blanket.
Sharice went to work.
I went to class and was surprised to see Aleesha, who had not been coming to class. Her first words were, “What are you going to do about Ximena?”
The whites of her eyes were as cold as alabaster, but the pupils burned like lava.
“My suggestion would be to have a memorial of some sort, but each of you should have a say in what we do.”
“A memorial is okay,” said Aleesha, “but if I was dead, I’d want someone to do something about the person who killed me.”
“It was an accident,” said Carly.
“No. It was Prather. We all know how bad he is with clay. That’s why nobody takes his classes. Evidently, he’s just as bad with plaster as he is with clay. We know he’s got no talent. Now we know he’s got no common sense. You can’t cover someone up with plaster and expect them not to suffocate.”
Raúl said, “George Segal covered scores of people with plaster during his career, and not one of them ever suffocated.”
“That’s because he never covered their entire body.”
“He sometimes covered their heads, and they were still able to breathe.”
Carly said, “Prather left straws in Ximena’s nose so she could breathe.”
“You’re all missing the point,” said Aleesha. “You don’t breathe with your nose. You breathe with your diaphragm. Take a breath and feel your muscles move.”
Most of us did as she ordered.
“She’s right,” said Nathan.
“I think so too,” said Carly.
“Yeah,” said Bruce. “It’s like a boa constrictor. They don’t suffocate you by covering your nose. They do it by preventing you from expanding your diaphragm.”
Although Aleesha’s theory made sense and everyone agreed with her, I wondered if she was right. The medical investigator had ruled that Ximena died from asphyxiation. The simplest explanation was someone deliberately clogging the straws or maybe holding them closed.
I understand you can’t breathe if a big snake compresses you into the diameter of a garden hose. But having your diaphragm simply restricted but not compressed is a different matter. You might be able to take enough small breaths to stay alive. In that case, it wouldn’t be Prather’s fault except insofar as he was the one who put her in a position to be murdered by anyone who wandered into the gallery and cut off her air supply.
I was determined not to be pulled into the investigation. I reminded the class that it was a police matter. If they determined simply being encased in plaster was the cause of death, Prather would likely be charged with something like involuntary manslaughter. Meanwhile, the best thing we could do was some sort of tribute.
“Won’t her family do that?” asked Marlon. Then he added, “And should we do a memorial without consulting them?”
“The Journal ran an article about her death,” said Carly. “I was surprised it didn’t contain any information about her. It didn’t even say where she was from.”
I thought about the times when I was arrested for murder and released the same day only to hear that it was already in the news
. “They probably didn’t have time to get that information and were just rehashing the police reports. Reporters hang around the police department to get all the bad news fast.”
“You should know since you been arrested so many times,” said Aleesha.
I winced. Even I knew everything could be searched online.
“It’s been five days since her death,” Raúl noted. “And today’s story still didn’t have any info about her.”
“Neither did the one in the Daily Lobo,” said Bruce. “You’d think the student paper would know something.”
“Maybe they’re withholding the information because they haven’t been able to notify the next of kin,” said Alfred.
“If they haven’t notified the next of kin, dummy,” said Aleesha, “they wouldn’t have put her name in the article.”
“Oh,” he said. “Right.” Then he started crying.
I thought it was because of Aleesha’s insult and was about to demand she apologize when Alfred spoke. “She insisted I be Prather’s helper. I normally avoid him like a biker bar. But when she explained why she wanted me to do it, I couldn’t say no.” He stopped to wipe his eyes. “If I had refused, she would still be alive.”
Carly hugged him. “You don’t know that. Prather would have found someone else to assist.”
Alfred shook his head. “No. She wouldn’t have done it unless I assisted.”
When I asked him how he could be sure of that, he reached into his backpack and handed me a note that read:
I’m willing to be the model because I need the money. And because that stupid Helen S. asked me to. Even though we don’t get along, she seems to think I owe it to her. But I don’t want Prather touching me. I don’t want him wrapping gauze on me. I want you to do that. And I want you to make sure there’s no monkey business.
“What’s it say?” asked Aleesha.
I looked at Alfred. “You can read it to them,” he said, and lowered his head.
After I did so, I asked if any of them knew her well.
“I never heard the girl say a single word,” said Aleesha.
“Come to think of it, neither did I,” said Bruce.
Raúl said, “I had another studio with Ximena. Studio classes aren’t normally like this one. They don’t involve weird field trips, twig gathering and eerie Native American pot-making chants. Mostly you just work on your own project. Some students are talkative. Others concentrate on their work. She seemed absorbed in her art.”
Aleesha looked at Alfred. “I still think Prather killed her. Why else would she write down that stuff about him not touching her? She wanted a written record. If she wasn’t suspicious, she would have just told you.”
“No,” he said. “She wrote it down because she couldn’t speak.”
“She was deaf and dumb?” Aleesha asked.
“That’s hate talk,” said Apache.
“What do you know about hate talk?” she shot back at him.
“More than you, evidently.”
Aleesha started to reply, but I interrupted. “No arguments. I knew Ximena even less well than all of you did. But I’m sure she wouldn’t want us bickering. For your information, she was in fact a deaf-mute.”
“Why didn’t she have a signer with her?” asked Aleesha. “The university provides them free of charge.”
Raúl said, “My guess is she didn’t want one.”
“Why not?”
“She was obviously great at reading lips. None of us even realized she was deaf. When a teacher gave her instructions, she was always able to follow them. And the few times I asked her something, she always responded appropriately—nodding yes, shaking her head no, shrugging, smiling, whatever. I thought she was just shy. Now that I think about it, the only noises I ever heard her make were sneezes.”
“She had allergies,” said Alfred.
Raúl said, “She hid her muteness perfectly. She probably didn’t want anyone to know she was mute, so she didn’t ask for a signer.”
“That’s ridiculous,” said Aleesha. “Being deaf is nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I didn’t say she was ashamed,” said Raúl. “My guess is she was proud of being such a proficient lip reader.”
Speculating about Ximena’s attitude about being deaf and mute was getting us nowhere, so I said, “Let’s get back to the topic of what to do.”
“A scholarship,” said Carly. “Let’s start a scholarship in her name.”
“Where are we going to get enough money to fund a scholarship?” asked Aleesha.
“Have an art sale,” said Bruce. “Maybe Mr. Schuze can put the pots we make this semester in his shop. When they sell, we can donate the money for a scholarship.”
He looked at me.
“I’d be happy to sell them.”
“But would anyone buy them?” asked Aleesha.
“They would if some of the pieces won prizes,” I said. “Let’s work on making great copies of ancient pots. Then let’s enter them in the student/faculty show. If some of your pots win prizes, that will be great publicity for the work we’d be selling. I know a few wealthy collectors who might buy some of your work. But it’s got to be first-rate.”
“That’s a great idea,” said Nathan.
“It is,” said Bruce. Then he looked at Alfred. “But before we talk about that, I want to know why you avoid biker bars.”
Alfred dried his eyes, smiled, took a couple of illustrative steps and said, “The customers would probably beat me up just because I walk funny.”
Bruce lifted his right forearm and flexed his bicep. “Don’t worry, little buddy. I’ll make sure they leave you alone.”
He sounded like the captain on those reruns of Gilligan’s Island. But Alfred didn’t look like Bob Denver, the actor who played Gilligan. He looked more like Mitzi Gaynor.
I thought about Charles Webbe asking for information. “The note tells us why she wanted someone to assist Prather,” I said to Alfred. “Do you mind telling me why she selected you?”
He shook his head. “I can’t talk about it.”
I didn’t want to press him. “Okay, is everyone agreed about selling your pots to get money for a scholarship?”
They were all in. They had become proficient at forming armatures and draping them with clay. If they could master glazing with traditional designs, I thought we might create enough saleable merchandise to fund a small scholarship.
Turns out I was wrong. Not about the scholarship. About the size.
26
After Sharice left for work on Wednesday, I spent the morning cleaning the condo and rereading The Monkey Wrench Gang. It’s the most famous of Edward Abbey’s twenty-one books because it was made into a film and also because it spawned the radical environmental movement.
A widowed surgeon, his receptionist/mistress, a Green Beret freshly returned from the Vietnam War and a polygamist Mormon river guide find they all have two things in common: a deep-seated love of the Southwest and a willingness to stop the rape of the land they love by any means necessary short of murder. They wage war on the machines of destruction. Road graders, coal trains, power plants and logging trucks are sabotaged, crashed, pushed over cliffs and set ablaze.
Desert Solitaire is a love story between a man and the high desert, the sort of book you find yourself finishing at two in the morning because you can’t put it down. Monkey Wrench has a great premise and became a successful film, but I couldn’t stay with the book for long stretches. After about the third explosion, you want to move on to something else. I’d finish one chapter then do the windows. Read another then do the floors. Then read about three chapters because the next task was cleaning Benz’s litter box.
Whit Fletcher showed up after lunch and walked in when I opened the door.
“So you and the dental woman have shacked up. Can’t blame you
for choosing her place. It’s a lot fancier than yours.”
“Her name is Sharice, Whit.”
“She know about your bad luck?”
“She knows I’m a treasure hunter, if that’s what you mean.”
“I mean like that guy you told me about got hit by lightning seven times. Except in your case, it’s dead bodies. Maybe you been struck again. Seeing as you and me are friends, there ain’t no need to haul you downtown.” He looked around. “Hell, we are downtown. Well, no need to take you to the station. I can get a set of your prints right here.”
I felt a twitch between my shoulders. “Why do you need my prints?”
“Same reason any cop wants prints. To see if they match some we already got.”
“Why would you think any prints you have are mine?”
“You gonna cooperate or not? I’m doing you a favor, Hubert. You give me your prints. They don’t match, no one even knows I asked you.”
“Yeah. But you don’t just go around asking random people for their fingerprints. There must be a reason why you want mine.”
“You gonna give me the prints or you gonna go all ACLU on me? The reason I need your prints is because someone connected with the case told us prints we found might be yours.”
“Connected with what case?”
“The Ximena Sifuentes case. Is there another one you’re involved in?”
This time it was a full shudder instead of a twitch. “I’m not connected to the case. I just happened to be in the gallery when they discovered she was dead. There must have been a hundred other people there. You planning to get prints from all of them too?”
“If I have to. But nobody has suggested any of them as possible matches.”
“Who suggested the prints might be mine?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
He was silent while I thought it over. Where did the prints he wanted to compare mine to come from? I never touched Ximena. I never touched the plaster around her. I suppose I touched the gallery floor, where I found myself sitting after the shock of seeing her tumble backward. I may have touched the wall because I ended up resting my back against it.
The Pot Thief Who Studied Edward Abbey Page 13
