“How did you come to be named Cyril?”
“My brother and me were named by a priest from Eastern Europe.”
“Your brother’s name is Methodius?”
“Yes.” He smiled. “I guess I’m the lucky one.”
“The priest is the one who told you about me?”
I took his silence as a yes.
“See you around,” he said as he left.
So he really was opportunity after all. And sent from heaven. Well, sent by Father Groas, which is about as close to heaven as I get.
I studied Dulcinea’s pots. They were well-formed and symmetrical. They were burnished smoothly in a fashion impossible without a wheel. They were perfect except for the fact that they lacked soul. I thought about the potter whose works I had unearthed in that summer dig so many years ago, and I asked her what she thought.
“They are not us,” she said.
What the hell. If Cyril Duran’s great-grandfather can speak to him, why can’t a tenth century potter speak to me?
50
The next evening found me standing in front of my counter and looking at eighteen people, some curious and some furious. I looked at the crowd and thought to myself that if I could attract this many customers to my shop, I could be rich.
But they weren’t customers. Srinivasa Patel was on the front row of borrowed chairs from Dos Hermanas, still looking like a Sikh without a beard, except the towel had been replaced by a bandage. Susannah was sitting next to him, looking at him adoringly. Carl Wron was next to Betty Shanile. Layton Kent was at the end of the row.
Teodoro Vasquez was sitting in the second row next to a man who looked like the villain in a Hollywood thriller. He had a face like a hatchet, dark shifty eyes, and acne-scarred cheeks. I had never seen him before.
Seated next to him was another man I had never seen before. A burly guy with curly hair, he looked like a model you might see in those outdoorsy clothes in the L. L. Bean Catalog. A book stuck out of both of his coat pockets.
Fred Givens was in the next chair, and Chauncey Benthrop was seated to his right. Neither one of them looked like anyone you would see in a movie or a catalog. Tristan had the last seat on the row.
The third row held Bob Saunders, Howard Glover, the man we all knew as Don Canon and Adele the Serving Wench.
There were also two uniformed policemen in the crowd.
Whit Fletcher leaned over to me and said, “That dame with the food ain’t gonna show up again is she?” I told him I couldn’t stop her, but we’d reached a compromise – Gladys wouldn’t come until I signaled her by turning out the outside light over the door. He groaned but accepted it and walked to the back and stood behind the two men in blue.
Then he nodded to me, and I started with the line I can’t resist in such situations. “You’re probably wondering why I called you all together,” I said, and Fletcher rolled his eyes, Susannah sighed and Tristan laughed.
“Most of you were at the Lawrence Ranch with me. It was an event none of us will ever forget because three people were murdered.”
“I still don’t think we can be certain of that,” said Teodoro Vasquez.
“My client has no knowledge regarding the causes of death of the three persons you refer to,” said the man seated next to him.
“Who are you?” asked Fletcher.
“I am Dalton Figg, Mr. Vasquez’ attorney.” When he spoke, his hatchet face elongated and his incisors protruded over his lower lip. I thought of Mae West’s quip that his mother should have thrown him away and kept the stork.
Layton Kent made a slight puffing noise as if expelling something unpleasant from his mouth.
“I don’t believe Mr. Vasquez had anything to do with the deaths,” I reassured Figg.
The pettifogger’s incisors retreated and he looked around the room with a satisfied expression as if he had just accomplished something.
“As Mr. Vasquez has reminded us,” I continued, “there was some question, even to the very end, whether the deaths were murders or accidents. However, forensic examinations have been completed on all three victims, and they all died from a blow to the back of the skull.”
Srini’s eyes widened and Susannah shuddered.
“Fred Rich was dead before he was placed in a tub of icy water, Charles Winant was unconscious before he was placed in the freezer, and we all saw Carla Glain on the floor of her room.”
Fred Givens lowered his head.
“In order to understand what happened up in the mountains north of Taos, we first have to understand why we were all there to begin with. The fund raising office at the University periodically holds events to which they invite past, current, and prospective donors. They decided to hold such an event at the Lawrence Ranch, and they invited a number of current or would-be donors. The distinguished silver-haired gentleman standing at the back of the room is Detective First Grade Whit Fletcher from the Albuquerque Police Department.”
“Cut the crap, Hubert, and get on with it.”
I did. “Detective Fletcher has a list of all the people invited to the event in question. Twelve people originally accepted, but as the event neared, the weather forecast was ominous. The University decided to cancel the event and began calling the confirmed invitees to let them know. They reached eight of the twelve people. The four they did not reach were Betty Shanile, Robert Saunders, Carl Wron, and Howard Glover, all of whom showed up at the ranch not knowing the event had been cancelled. They are all here today.”
“It’s not all that surprising that four out of twelve people could not be reached on such short notice. What is surprising is that six other people showed up who are not on the original list that detective Fletcher obtained from the University. Those six were Fred Rich, Charles Winant, Carla Glain, Srinivasa Patel, Teodoro Vasquez, and Agatha Cruz. The obvious question is why were they there?”
“My client,” said Figg, rising from his chair as if to lodge an objection in court, “received a proper invitation and cannot be held responsible for any errors made by the University.”
“Mr. Figs,” said Fletcher, “we’re here to find out what happened, and it’ll go a lot smoother if you’ll just stay quiet and let Mr. Schuze here explain it for us.”
“It’s Figg, not Figs.”
“I don’t care if it’s peaches. Just sit down and shut up.”
“My client has a constitutional right to representation,” he stammered, his incisors making another unscheduled public appearance.
“Your client has not been charged with anything,” said Layton. “This is a private meeting in Mr. Schuze’ home. If you insist on interrupting our host, he has the right to have you put off the premises.”
“And the means,” added Fletcher.
Figg sat down and I continued.
“All three of the murder victims came from the group of five who were not on the University’s original list. For ease of reference, I’ll just call them the non-donors.”
If you noticed that I said ‘five’ when the number started out as ‘six’, then you are paying more attention than the people in my shop were. They didn’t notice. I changed the number for a reason you will come to understand.
I continued, “Since there were four donors from the official list and five non-donors not on that list, you can calculate the probability that all three victims were—”
“Come on, Hubie,” pleaded Susannah. “Don’t do the math. Just give us the odds.”
“The odds against all three victims coming from the non-donors are approximately six to one.”
“Them ain’t very good odds,” Fletcher noted, “but a few people beat them every day at the roulette wheels.”
I pointed out that someone had attacked Patel and since the modus operandi of that attack was the same as in the case of the first three victims – a blow to the back of the head – we had to assume he was supposed to be victim number four, and that raised the odds to ten to one.
“You still can’t take it to co
urt,” said Fletcher.
“True,” I agreed, “but it was enough to make me start wondering what the five people had in common. Carla Glain struck me as the sort of person likely to have little in common with the others, so I started with her. What I learned from Fred Givens and her other co-workers was more or less what I expected. She was an intense person who had few interests outside of her work. She was unmarried, didn’t travel and didn’t even take all the vacations days she had coming to her. Indeed, I couldn’t imagine her attending the event at the Ranch, but Mr. Givens explained it to me.”
I looked at him. He cleared his throat and said, “She wasn’t going to go, but I talked her into it. I feel terrible about that. She had just been appointed to the Gaming Commission by the new Governor, and that’s a pretty prestigious appointment, so I told her that was probably why she received the invitation. She didn’t want to disappoint the Governor, so she decided to go. If I had just kept my mouth shut, she might still be—”
“You did what seemed right at the time,” I told him. “If we avoided all actions that might turn out to have unforeseen consequences, we wouldn’t be able to do anything, and our inaction would also have consequences. In my own case, I regret not following up on the fact that Carla had been appointed to the Gaming Commission. Had I done so, the attack on Mr. Patel might have been avoided. I’m just lucky the attack led to nothing more than a headache.”
“I am even more fortunate,” piped up Patel.
“But I did eventually put it together. I remembered Charles Winant expressed a profound dislike of gambling when we met. I knew from Fred Givens that Carla Glain was on the Gaming Commission. And while waiting for the ambulance to arrive, Mr. Patel told me he was working for the Gaming Commission helping them understand games of chance. He has a doctorate in mathematics with a specialty in probability theory. Yesterday morning I called the Gaming Commission and learned that Carla Glain was not the only new member appointed by the new Governor. There were two others – Fred Rich and Charles Winant.”
A collective gasp issued forth from the audience. It was an exciting moment, and I felt a little rush at having delivered the dramatic news. I don’t know exactly how to describe the feeling I had. The Germans probably have a word for it like weltanschauung or schadenfreude or something like that.
51
The collective gasp was followed by a knock at the door. It was Miss Gladys Claiborne, rapping my door with one hand and balancing a tray about the size of a small trampoline with the other.
“I thought she wasn’t coming until you signaled her, Hubert,” protested Fletcher.
I raised my shoulders, dropped them, and went and opened the door.
“Lordy, I do believe I’m about to lose this tray. Would you be so kind as to help me with this, Detective Fletcher?” He started to say something, but she lurched forward and he grabbed the tray. She looked at him admiringly. “You are light on your feet for such a big man. Now, Mr. Schuze, you grab this side…perfect, and I’ll just say a few words to your guests.”
As we walked back towards the counter, I told Whit the outside light burned out. Evidently the bulb had emitted its last lumen just moments before my dramatic announcement about Rich and Winant, and Miss Gladys must have been standing at the ready by her door, tray in hand.
While we unloaded the tray onto my counter, Miss Gladys turned her round creamy face and its small blue eyes to the group and said, “Mr. Schuze doesn’t entertain often, and he never remembers to provide the little snacks that make any gathering a success. Well, they say the Lord moves in mysterious ways, and you just have to believe it’s true, because I’m his neighbor and I just adore making party food, so it works out well for everyone, doesn’t it?”
She walked over to the counter and looked down at the layout of the dishes disapprovingly and then rearranged them. “What I’ve brought,” she said, pointing to each one as she named it, “is festive sausage balls, shrimp-stuffed mushrooms, bacon cheese puffs, barbequed cocktail franks, broiled BBQ wings with blue cheese dipping sauce, bourbon honey chicken thighs, and that old stand-by, deviled eggs. For your sweet tooth, I’ve brought spiced pecans, little squares of Coca-Cola cake – that was one of Mr. Claiborne’s favorite – and brownies.”
Some people got up to make a selection while Fletcher just stood there shaking his head. When Miss Gladys saw that others were remaining in their chairs, she put a few selections back on the tray and carried it back to them. Adele the Serving Wench just turned her head. One of the policemen reached for a sausage ball.
Miss Gladys brought the tray back to the counter, and I selected a bourbon honey chicken thigh. It was sweet, crispy, gooey and delicious. I had another. Whit gave in and picked up a barbequed cocktail frank. Somehow I knew that’s what he would choose.
“Now that we’ve had something to eat,” I suggested, “we should all return to our seats.” They all did so with a little prodding from Fletcher, and I returned to my explanation.
“It cannot be a coincidence that Carla Glain, Fred Rich, and Charles Winant were all new appointees to the Gaming Commission and all ended up at the Ranch. Nor can it be a coincidence that the two other people of the non-donor group also have ties to the Commission. As I mentioned, Mr. Patel is working for them, and it turns out that Mr. Vasquez is the lobbyist for Citizens for Responsible Gaming, a pro-gambling group.”
“That isn’t accurate,” said Vasquez. “CFRG was established to insure that New Mexicans can maintain the right to play games of chance, and we educate them on how to do that responsibly.”
“Wording chosen so as to qualify the group as an educational organization so it won’t have to register under the lobbying laws,” observed Layton Kent.
Figg rose again and said, “CFRG is a perfectly legal organization formed—”
“Sit down, Figs,” commanded Fletcher.
He sat.
I continued. “Three questions remain. First, who invited the five people with ties to gaming? Second, why did someone start trying to kill them all? Third, who did it?”
“We all know who did it,” said Adele the Serving Wench. “It was that creepy old woman, Agatha Cruz.” A number of people nodded their agreement.
“We’ll come to her in a minute,” I said. “But let’s go through the questions as I listed them. First, who invited the non-donors? Mr. Canon?”
The man we all knew as Don Canon looked at me calmly but did not move or speak. He was turning out to be, if not unflappable, at least less flappable than I would have guessed. The man who looked like the L. L. Bean model stood up, looked around the room and said, “My name is Don Canon.”
It was another Dramatic Moment, and I have to admit I enjoyed it again. It was like that old television show, To Tell the Truth, where one of the three panelists stands up at the end and announces he is the real Dudley Doright. Maybe it was childish on my part, but I really like seeing the looks on their faces. Carl Wron, Betty Shanile, Robert Saunders, and Howard Glover were all glancing back and forth between the man they all knew as Don Canon and the man who was now standing and claiming that name.
The real Don Canon paused to let what he said sink in and then said, “I have a confession to make. On Wednesday night, I got the call that the event was being cancelled, but I was told to stay at the Ranch in case they couldn’t reach all the invitees. I didn’t want to stay. The reason need not be mentioned here. Mr. Schuze knows what the reason was, and it has nothing to do with what happened at the Ranch. I called an acquaintance of mine, Johnny Carrasco, and asked him if he would fill in for me. He said he couldn’t do it, so I thought I was going to be stuck there. But the next morning he called and said he could do it after all. He came up later that day and I left. I got snowed in at Taos like everyone else, and I didn’t return to the Ranch until Monday. I spent a couple of days cleaning up, repaired the phone line, took care of the livestock and did some work on the truck. The police talked to me briefly to verify that I had asked Johnny to fill in
for me, but they had already searched the place before I returned and they didn’t tell me much. We don’t get television up there and no papers are delivered, so I didn’t know all the details of what had gone on until I got a call from Mr. Schuze yesterday morning. I heard Mr. Schuze tell Mr. Givens that we shouldn’t feel guilty about the unintended results of things we do, and obviously I had no idea what would happen after I left, but I still feel terrible about it. Three people are dead who might be alive if I had not left my post.”
A hush came over the room, and I let it hang there for a few moments before I called on Johnny Carrasco, the man formerly known to us as Don Canon.
“I also feel bad about what happened,” he said. “Like Don said, I told him I couldn’t fill in for him when he called me that night. But later that evening I was talking to Agatha Cruz and she said she had a group of people she owed a favor, and it would be great if she could invite them to the Ranch for a free weekend. I told her I wasn’t interested in helping her throw a party. I hardly knew the old bag. But she offered to pay me five hundred dollars, and I couldn’t turn it down, so I told her to go ahead and call her friends. Then I got my girlfriend, Adele Carlton, to go with me and pretend to be a worker up there because I figured I’d need the help, and I wanted her to be with me anyway. Of course we pretended just to be co-workers because I didn’t want to get Don in trouble by having anyone there say something later about how the boss and the waitress were fooling around.” He looked around to the others with an earnest expression on his face. “If I had known what that crazy old lady was going to do, I never would have gone up there. I feel bad just like Don.”
When Carrasco sat down, everyone turned to me. “It seems that two of the three questions have been answered. We are told that Agatha Cruz invited the non-donors and that she killed them. But the question of why remains unanswered.”
“I think you answered it,” said Carrasco. “You told us the people she invited all had some connection to gambling. I guess she hated gambling.”
The Pot Thief Who Studied D. H. Lawrence Page 17
