The Pot Thief Who Studied Edward Abbey

by Orenduff, J. Michael;

  “That’s because he had two glasses of tea.”

  “And someone saved the straws?”

  “I don’t think so. They were thrown in a trash can, which was eventually emptied into a Dumpster behind Hodgin Hall. I saw them while my class was searching for twigs but didn’t realize they were those straws. Someone retrieved them and tried to frame Hockley.”

  She was shaking her head as I spoke. “How would they know which straws were his?”

  “Because he doodled on both cups. So when they saw the cups with the doodles, they knew the straws were his.”

  “And how did they get Ximena’s nasal gunk on them? Her body was with the OMI by that point.”

  “Remember the second incriminating piece of evidence was a note that seemed to imply she and Hockley were having an affair? I’m guessing that note did double duty. It not only provided a motive, it provided some of her nasal mucus, which was rubbed onto the straws.”

  “What? She blew her nose on the note?”

  “She sneezed on it. She had allergies and sneezed a lot.”

  “Okay, all of that is theoretically possible. But it’s also farfetched.”

  “Granted. So give me another theory about the straws that’s near-fetched.”

  “I can’t think of one. But there’s a hole in your theory. The handwriting expert said the writing on the note was Ximena’s. So unless the framer was able to copy Ximena’s handwriting well enough to fool the police expert, then Hockley was having an affair with her and she was going to end it. That’s enough motive to make Hockley a suspect. Turning over evidence related to a suspect is not a frame. It’s just part of the investigatory process.”

  “The note was torn. Charles and I both think the torn-off part might change the meaning of the note.”

  “No way. I don’t remember exactly what you told me the note said, but I do remember there was no doubt about what it meant.”

  I pictured the note. “It said something like ‘Hockley’s been after me since I was a freshman. I fended him off. But last semester, I gave in. It was great at first and exciting. It was something I’d never done. But now he’s making too many demands. I want out. But I don’t know how to tell him. I don’t want to hurt him.’”

  She just looked at me and sipped her margarita.

  “I know it seems obvious,” I said. “But it doesn’t actually say they were having an affair.”

  “And when Mick Jagger sings about not getting any satisfaction, he never mentions the word sex, but that’s what the song’s about.”

  She was right, of course. I decided to share my farfetched theory with Fletcher. He would poke a hole in it. Which is what it needed. And what I needed in order to stop obsessing.

  The letter from the penitentiary was on the table. It contained two things. A slip of paper saying it had been opened by an assistant warden and cleared for mailing. And Freddie’s drawing of Susannah. I passed it to her.

  She stared at it. “Dance in the Country.”

  “Huh?”

  “A painting by Renoir. Except I’m in it.” She looked up. “Where did you get this?”

  I showed her the return address on the envelope.

  “Freddie?”

  I nodded.

  Her eyes watered.

  “Tell me about the Renoir,” I said.

  “It’s one of my favorite paintings. I don’t remember telling him that, but I must have. Why else would he choose that painting?”

  “Maybe you and Freddie just happen to like the same painting. More likely it’s because it’s so romantic. He’s still in love with you.”

  She looked back at the sketch. “It is romantic. They haven’t finished their picnic. They’re totally lost in dance, oblivious to all else. His hat has fallen off. Her fan is about to hit the ground. She’s obviously looking forward to what will happen next.”

  “When I saw it, I almost choked up. He captured your innocence and enthusiasm.”

  “I’m hardly innocent, Hubie.”

  “Innocence isn’t a matter of history, Suze, it’s a state of mind.”

  She looked at the sketch again, transfixed. “This says more about him than me.”

  “How so?”

  “I think artists’ personalities show in their works. The person who painted this is less self-centered than the Frederick Blass I knew.”

  “You think the guy whose back we see is Freddie?”

  She didn’t answer that question. I don’t think she even heard it. “If what you say is true and he still …”

  After a minute, she dried her eyes, looked up and held the sketch toward me.

  “It’s yours,” I said. “He asked me to give it to you.”

  58

  After the first day in class, I’d starting looking forward to it being over. Now I was sad it was.

  A lot can happen in one semester.

  “We gonna have a final exam?” asked Aleesha.

  “Is it normal to have a final in a studio class?”

  “No, but you don’t do normal.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “I meant it as a compliment. I liked this class even though you don’t like me.”

  “I do like you, Aleesha. And I like you even more when you don’t have your cell phone.”

  The class laughed.

  “I think we will have a final. But it won’t be here. It will be at Dos Hermanas in Old Town.”

  “Isn’t that a bar?” asked Bruce.

  “It’s a tortilleria that happens to sell alcohol. Attendance is optional. Want to know your final grade?”

  “I don’t want to know mine,” said Mia.

  “Why not? You made an A.”

  “I did?”

  “Sure. Your clay piece was inventive, and the etching was good.”

  Raúl said, “If she made an A, the rest of us must have made A-pluses.”

  Everyone laughed including Mia.

  “There is no A-plus grade. But you did all make A’s.” I thought for a moment before continuing. “I lost a student. You lost a classmate. That will stay with us forever.”

  I brought them up-to-date by telling them that Detective Fletcher had reported to me that Ximena had been poisoned.

  “I just hope they catch the guy who did it,” said Aleesha.

  “Or the woman who did it,” said Raúl.

  “Women don’t do things like that,” she said.

  “On the contrary,” said Raúl. “Poison is the preferred method of women murderers. Lucrezia Borgia, the little old ladies from Arsenic and Old Lace, the witch from Snow White.”

  “He or she will be caught,” I said.

  Aleesha said, “Don’t bet on it. There were almost five hundred murders in Chicago last year, and the police only solved about a hundred of them.”

  Marlon said, “Is that why you came to UNM instead of going to school in your home town?”

  “Somebody from LA don’t need to be criticizing Chicago.”

  Bruce noted that the murder case solution rate in Albuquerque is 95 percent.

  Someone else started to speak, but I cut them off. “Did any of you know Ximena was a poet?”

  They shook their heads, except for Alfred, who said, “She wrote some for me.”

  “Do you want to share one of them?”

  He shook his head.

  I held up Ximena’s black book of poems. “This notebook is full of her poems. I’m going to turn it over to the police. They want to see if there’s anything in it that might help their investigation. After the murderer is caught and tried, they’ll give it back to Ximena’s parents.”

  “Can you read one of her poems to us?” asked Carly.

  “That’s why I brought the book. There’s a poem about all of you. She titled it ‘Friends
.’”

  I interlock my index fingers

  and form the lip of my pot

  using the v they create

  I interlock them again

  We are all friends

  Silence does not bother them

  “What’s that index-finger thing?” Aleesha asked.

  “Interlocking index fingers twice is the sign for friendship.”

  “You know how to sign?”

  “No. I asked a friend of mine about it.” I closed the book. “I’ve enjoyed getting to know you. I’ll be in my office for the next hour in case any of you have paperwork that needs to be signed.”

  The first drop-in was Alfred, who said he wanted to apologize for appearing uncooperative.

  “I never found you uncooperative,” I said.

  He looked at his shoes. “You asked me why Ximena said I was the only one she would allow to prep her for the body cast, and I didn’t tell you.”

  “That’s not uncooperative, Alfred. Cooperation doesn’t require you to reveal personal things.”

  “And then in class today, you asked if I wanted to share one of the poems Ximena wrote for me, and I didn’t.”

  “Same answer. Those are both private things. You have a right to keep it that way.”

  “I would have told you why she chose me if I thought it would help the police.”

  “I know that.”

  He finally looked up from the floor. “She was a very special person.”

  “Yes. She was.”

  “We were sort of a couple.”

  He studied my face for a reaction. I don’t think I showed one. Maybe I did. After all, I couldn’t see my face.

  “You’re probably surprised. Most people think I’m gay, but I’m not.”

  I didn’t think teaching pottery required me to know the sexual orientation of my students, so I didn’t say anything.

  “I’m not straight, either. I’m just not interested.”

  “You said you and Ximena were a couple.”

  “I said ‘sort of.’”

  “I enjoyed having you in class, Alfred.”

  We stood. We hugged. He left.

  Bruce was waiting a discreet distance down the hall.

  “Can I ask you for some personal advice man-to-man?”

  I signed up to teach Anasazi Pottery Methods, I thought to myself, not to be a counselor. But I nodded.

  “I’m thinking of asking Carly for a date. You think that’s out of line?”

  “Why would it be?”

  “I’m twenty-three. She’s thirty-two. She has a kid.”

  “You like Luke?”

  “Sure. He’s a great kid.”

  “You like spending time with him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then what’s the problem? She’s a nice person. She’s no longer married. And she’s attractive. What else do you want?”

  “What about the age thing?”

  “I’m ten years older than Sharice.”

  “Yeah, but you’re a man.”

  “It’s 2016, Bruce, not 1950.”

  He smiled. “Got it. Thanks.”

  Mia was next. “Mind if I kiss you? I promise it’s just to show how thankful I am for what you did.”

  “What did I do?”

  “I guess it’s what you didn’t do.”

  “How about a hug instead? Sharice is the jealous type.”

  Aleesha said, “Sharice tell you about our little talk?”

  “She did not.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  She shook her head slowly. “Did you ask her about it?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “If she thinks I need to know something about it, she’ll tell me.”

  “She said that?”

  “No.”

  “So you saw the two of us out there talking by the gazebo, and you didn’t ask her about it and she didn’t tell you about it.”

  “Our version of don’t ask, don’t tell.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “I forget how young you are. It’s a policy the military adopted when—”

  “I know about that. What I don’t get is you both ignoring it.”

  “We didn’t ignore it. She obviously didn’t think she needed to tell me about it.”

  “But don’t you wonder what—”

  “It’s called love, Aleesha. And it’s based on trust.”

  “Wow. Well, she loves you just as much, but you already know that.”

  I nodded.

  “I never believed a mixed couple could make it work.”

  “You were wrong.”

  She smiled. “Yeah. I was.”

  Marlon crushed my hand and told me my class was his favorite.

  “Will you take another pottery class?”

  “Nope. This was my last class. Fact is, I’m dropping out of school.”

  “Why? You’re a good student, Marlon. You should get your degree.”

  “I will. But I need to spend the next few months working out. No time for classes. I expect to be drafted in the spring.”

  “I thought the draft was abolished a long time ago.”

  “That’s funny, Mr. Schuze. I’m hoping to be drafted in the NFL.”

  “NFL?”

  “National Football League. You’ve heard of it, right?”

  “Right. Denver Broncos. Dallas Cowboys. So you’ll be an offensive lineman with one of those teams?”

  “Any team would be okay with me, but I’m hoping for the Rams.”

  I didn’t know that one. “I wish you the best, Marlon.”

  He gave me a one-arm hug and said goodbye.

  Raúl and Apache arrived at the same time. Raúl said, “Weird class. But good.” He extended his hand and I took it. Apache said, “What he said.”

  I realized I’d think about these students off and on for the rest of my life. I didn’t want to teach again, but I was grateful for the experience.

  Then I thought about Ximena. The dissonance between nine happy students saying goodbye and the one who never said anything.

  59

  Whit Fletcher peered into my office.

  “They must still dislike you, giving you an office this small.”

  “This office is actually a clue.”

  “You been hanging around that Inchaustigui girl too much.”

  “You want to know why it’s a clue?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I went to see Frederick Blass.”

  “Yeah. Webbe told me he got you in on an off day. Blass apologize for trying to frame you?”

  “He did. He also told me the art department never hires adjuncts because they don’t have enough enrollment to create basic loads for their regular faculty.”

  “So?”

  “So that started me wondering why Milton Shorter hired me. And the only reason that makes sense is he hired me as a form of revenge.”

  He stared out from underneath those droopy eyes. “Revenge for what?”

  “For upsetting his wife.”

  He did what I’d hoped. Punched a hole in my theory. One I could have driven my Bronco through.

  “He ain’t married.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Routine police work, Hubert. We always check out the family of victims, perps and even witnesses. Just in case there are any connections.”

  “But there’s a woman named Helen Shorter who works as a deaf interpreter at the university. I saw her in his office.”

  “She’s his sister.”

  “But she has a gigantic nose. His is small and delicate.”

  “You seen my wife
. She’s almost six feet tall. Her sister is a runt. People from the same family don’t always look alike.”

  “She has a Nordic complexion. He looks Italian.”

  “What’d I just say?”

  I gave up and asked him if the crime lab tested all the straws for cyanide.

  “Of course. None of the ones given to us had cyanide on them.”

  “What about the two that were actually in her nose?”

  “The paramedics and cops who were called after the Sifuentes­ girl keeled over didn’t think about the straws. Probably didn’t know there were any. Who the hell knows about covering someone with plaster and calling it art? We asked Prather about it the second time we talked to him. That was after the OMI ruled the death was by asphyxiation. He said he took the cast back to his studio. Said he must have thrown the straws away, since they weren’t part of the art. He also said he planned to complete the project.”

  “Even though Ximena was dead?”

  “Said her being dead made the project more meaningful. Said it would be a tribute.”

  “Baloney. Since when do murderers pay tribute to their victims?”

  “You think he killed her?”

  I recited the reasons I’d given Susannah. He was the one who chose her as the model. He was the one who put her in a defenseless situation. And although theoretically anyone could have walked in off the street and poisoned her, he was the only one we knew for sure was in there. And he demonstrated his willingness to harm someone when he attacked me.

  Fletcher admitted Prather would be his prime suspect except for lack of a motive.

  I told him my theory about Shorter assigning me the class as revenge. He laughed at me.

  Instead of trying to convince him, I said, “Maybe it would help the investigation to clear up everything concerning the straws you were given as evidence.”

  “Hmm. Sort of clear the underbrush.”

  “Exactly.”

  “That why you asked me to come here?”

  I told him it was. We improvised a quick good cop/bad cop script and walked down the hall.

  Whit stood unseen to the side of her door, and I walked into Jollo Bakkie’s office by myself.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

  I didn’t answer her question. I just started the script. “You went to the Dumpster behind Hodgin Hall and pulled two straws out of cups that had been doodled on. You recognized the doodles as being from Harte Hockley.”