The Pot Thief Who Studied Ptolemy (The Pot Thier)

by J. Michael Orenduff

  He stopped talking and stared at me through those ridiculous glasses.

  “And did it?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “So what is it you found out?”

  “Not found out – inferred. I figure he must have had “hub” on or near him. Maybe he wrote it out in blood as he died to leave a clue for the police.”

  “He was shot in the head at close range. I don’t think he did any writing after that.”

  “God, you’re a brutal beast. A story about you could rank right up there with Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood. Will you give me an exclusive interview? I’ll share the royalties with you.”

  “I didn’t kill him.”

  “But what about the word ‘hub’?”

  “What about it?”

  “Well, it is the first three letters of your name.”

  43

  I was happy to see Miss Gladys after I returned from the Crystal Palate. She evidently hadn’t heard about my arrest or considered it an unfit topic for genteel conversation because she didn’t mention it. Instead, she offered me something called seven-layer Mexican dip. I always thought of dips as creamy concoctions served in a small bowl and scooped out with chips or crackers, but this dip is evidently an entrée.

  Miss Gladys’ food provokes in me an approach/avoidance conflict. On the one hand, I’m curious to know what’s in it, partly because I like to know what I’m eating and partly because hearing her describe her concoctions is delightfully entertaining. On the other hand, her explanations of the ingredients often leave me longing for the blissful ignorance I enjoyed before asking.

  I fancy myself something of an expert on Mexican food, a rich and varied cuisine that I’m certain contains no seven-layer dip. So I had to ask.

  “Oh, this one’s as easy as falling off a log. You just spread one can of refried beans on the bottom of a two-quart casserole dish. That’s layer number one. Then you cover that with two cans of Fritos bean dip, two plastic packages of guacamole dip, one sixteen ounce tub of sour cream, a thin layer of mayonnaise mixed with a package of taco seasoning, cover that with shredded cheddar cheese, then spread several cans of sliced black olives. It usually takes four of those little cans they come in. Then top it all off with chopped tomatoes and green onions.”

  “Miss Gladys, I believe your seven-layer dip has ten layers.”

  “Oh, pshaw! Did I mention that the mayo and the taco seasoning mix are combined together before you spread them?”

  “No. So now you’re down to nine layers.”

  “My goodness. Let me see. Oh, you must be counting the tomatoes and green onions as two layers, but it’s really only one because they’re chopped up together.”

  “That’s eight.”

  She pinched her ear and looked to be in deep thought. Meanwhile, I had taken the liberty of spooning out a small portion since she was distracted from that duty she normally performs with gusto. As you know by now, Miss Gladys’ units of kitchen measurements are not in teaspoons, cups or pinches, but in boxes, cans, and bags. This dish at least had two fresh ingredients, and aside from the mayonnaise, the sour cream, and all the unknown additives in canned and processed food, it didn’t seem unhealthy enough to warrant alerting the Surgeon General. Especially since I did not have a Miss Gladys-sized portion.

  She perked up. “I’ve got it! You can count the refried beans and the bean dip as a single layer. Why, I suppose you could even stir them together before you started. What do you think? Would that improve the dish?”

  I told her it was perfect as it was.

  She departed with her dirty dishes after trying unsuccessfully to force a second helping on me, and I sat there for a while mentally comparing the victuals of Crystal Palate and Miss Gladys. I decided my own cooking ranked first and headed over to Dos Hermanas, where the cooking ranked a close second. But I wasn’t going there to eat.

  Angie sashayed up to the table and placed fresh green margaritas in front of us.

  Susannah must have seen me looking at Angie walking away, because she said, “She’s attractive isn’t she, Hubie?”

  “So are you, Suze.”

  “Yeah, I know – the girl next door, healthy looking. But when I see someone as lissome as Angie, I don’t feel healthy, I feel clunky.”

  I recited a few lines of poetry:

  I think it very nice

  for ladies to be lissome

  But not so much that you cut yourself

  if you happen to embrace or kissome

  “Ogden Nash?”

  “Yeah, but I’m not sure I got it exactly right.”

  “Guess, what? The police were waiting for me after the lunch shift today, and they interviewed me about the party.”

  “Yeah, they also interviewed Horace Arthur.”

  “How do you know that?”

  I took a sip of my margarita and told Susannah about lunch with Bertha Zell.

  “And she invited Arthur?”

  “No. He was going from restaurant to restaurant trying to find us.”

  “That sounds about right. Where did you eat?”

  “The Crystal Palate. Father Groaz came in shortly after Arthur found us, and Bertha invited him to join us. Then there was a girl in the next booth who started talking to us about labyrinths, and Bertha invited her to the table as well.”

  “Should I ask about labyrinths?”

  I shook my head.

  “I didn’t think so. I’ve eaten at Crystal Palate. The food’s not as bad as you think it will be.”

  “Mine was. In fact, it was so bad that I was actually happy to see Miss Gladys when I got back.”

  “What was it this time?”

  “Seven-layer Mexican dip.”

  “Ooh, I like that. My mother makes it all the time.”

  I felt as though there was an entire cuisine out there featuring things like seven-layer dip and King Ranch chicken, and I was the only person in America who didn’t know about it.

  “You may not like the food,” she said, “but the name’s catchy. It must be a pun on Crystal Palace.”

  “Yeah, but why? What connection is there between an exhibition hall in Victorian England and a health food place in Albuquerque?”

  She stared at me blankly. “I meant the restaurant in California run by Buck Owens.”

  Now I stared at her blankly.

  “Different generations,” she said.

  “So what did the police ask you?”

  “Just what you’d expect – when did we arrive, when did we leave, why did you leave the party for a while, how were you acting after you came back, did I see blood on you, stuff like that.”

  “They probably drew up a list of questions to ask everyone. Arthur told them he saw blood on me.”

  “I told them that, too, Hubie. I figured someone else would tell them, and if I said I didn’t see it, they’d know I was lying, and that would make them even more suspicious of you.”

  “Good thinking.”

  “But I also told them I saw the cut on your arm, so the blood obviously was your own.”

  “What did they say to that?”

  “Nothing. They just asked the questions and wrote down my answers.”

  “What did you say about why I left the party?”

  She gave me a big smile. “I think I was pretty clever with that one. I remembered you told Arthur you’d gone out for a cigarette, so I told them what I heard you say to him. Then they asked me what you’d said to me about it, and I said you hadn’t told me why you went out and I hadn’t asked. So they asked me if I knew you smoked, and I said I’d never seen you smoke, but we spend most of our time in a restaurant where it’s not allowed, so maybe you do have a cigarette now and again.”

  “Thanks, Suze. You done good.”

  “You haven’t heard the best part. After they finished with their questions, they asked me if there was anything I remembered that might be helpful, so I told them that when you came back, you ask me what that loud noise wa
s because you thought it must have come from Freddie’s apartment.”

  “Excellent.”

  “Thanks. But they know we’re friends, so I don’t know if they believed me.”

  “Well, it’s the truth. And the source of that noise may be the key to figuring out who killed Gerstner. It didn’t come from 1101 and it didn’t come from Freddie’s, so I figure my theory that Gerstner was changing apartments in the building must be right, and the shot came from his new apartment. Did they ask you if you knew Gerstner?”

  She nodded. “I told him I’d heard of him but never met him.”

  “So they didn’t ask anything else about him?”

  “No, why?”

  “Because Arthur did know him, and they asked him if the word “hub” had any special significance to Gerstner.”

  Of course the mention of a possible clue plunged Susannah into her mystery mode. “Hmm. Doesn’t sound like a word that would be very useful as a clue. Could be part of a wheel, could be any place with a lot of activity... Hey, some of the students at UNM call the cafeteria The Hub. You think that’s it?”

  “I have no idea, but I know what Arthur thought it was.”

  “What?”

  “The first three letters of my name.”

  She stared at me for a few moments then said, “Like maybe Gerstner was trying to write his killer’s name out in blood but died before he got to the fourth letter?”

  “That’s what Arthur surmised.”

  “Do you think the police will think Gerstner was trying to write your name?”

  “Fletcher told me he was shot in the head at close range. That probably rules out writing anything afterwards. What’s more likely is he had a piece of paper in his pocket or wallet with ‘hub’ written on it. And why would anyone think that’s part of a name?”

  “So you’re not worried?”

  “I’ll be worried until they catch the murderer, but three random letters don’t worry me.”

  I could sense she was disappointed. There’s nothing she likes better than a mystery. She sat there brooding for a minute and then brightened and said, “Maybe ‘hub’ has something to do with the pots.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. You’re the potter.”

  “I can’t think of any connection between pots and hubs. I’ll let the police figure out if ‘hub’ is a clue. I have my own agenda – finding any of those pots that haven’t been sold.”

  “Because you’d like to see the originals returned to the Ma,” she said with a sly smile.

  “I would like that.”

  “And you’re fascinated by old pots.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’d like to take a stab at copying them.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “But mostly it’s the money,” she said.

  We smiled at each other and clinked our glasses together.

  “Another thing,” I added, “is I won’t have to worry about Gerstner walking in on me.”

  “That’s cold, Hubie.”

  “Maybe, but you know what he is now?”

  “What?”

  Her humor had put me in a mischievous mood. “He’s a cancelled Czech.”

  She groaned.

  I shrugged. “I never did him any harm when he was alive, and I can’t hurt him now. The fact is he kept those pots after saying he was going to return them. Now he’s no longer around to hide them or claim them, so it really is finders keepers.”

  “What if he sold them?”

  “Then it’s too late, but I have to start with the hypothesis that he still had at least some of them. And there’s another thing.”

  “Oh?”

  “There was something strange about the design on the pot I saw in Gerstner’s apartment. I don’t know what it was, but something was different, out of place. It could be significant if I can figure it out.”

  “What’s your first move?”

  “I need to go back to Gerstner’s apartment and search it more thoroughly.”

  “But you said you did a thorough search the first time,”

  “I did. But all I was doing then was searching places big enough to hold a pot. Now I want to search everywhere. And since there’s very little chance of anyone coming in, I can take my time and do just that.”

  “What if the police come in?”

  “I’m sure they’ve finished everything they need to do.”

  “But won’t there be crime tape or whatever they call it?”

  “Hmm. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Maybe you should get Fletcher to go with you.”

  “Now I really hadn’t thought of that. Why would he?”

  “It’s Whit Fletcher, Hubert.”

  “Oh. Money.”

  Then she changed the subject and said, “I have some exciting news from work.”

  “What’s that?” I responded.

  “Kaylee’s pregnant!”

  “Who’s the father?”

  “Hubert! That’s a terrible thing to say.”

  Kaylee was a runaway who showed up at my shop like a stray puppy. She made passes at me, Tristan, and even Father Groaz, which accounts for my snide remark. Susannah got her a job as a pot scrubber at La Placita, and she married Arturo, one of the other pot scrubbers.

  “Sorry,” I said. “When’s the blessed event expected?”

  “April. And they’ve already picked out names.”

  Susannah had that enigmatic smile on her face. It set me on edge, but I said nothing.

  “Do you want to know what they are?”

  I could see she was really excited, so I said of course I wanted to know.

  And you already know what she said: “Susannah if it’s a girl, and Hubert if it’s a boy.”

  Susannah left for class, and I sat there thinking about Kaylee and Arturo supporting a child on the wages they made as pot scrubbers. Then I thought about my rented store – now devoid of the replicas that had been smashed – and wondered if there might be a way to do something with the space that would provide employment for at least one of the young couple. A crazy idea came to me, but I shoved it aside in favor of more pressing concerns like how to avoid prison.

  44

  As we headed for the entrance to Rio Grande Lofts, Fletcher asked me to try to keep our task as quick and simple as possible since his visit was not official. Luckily, Rawlings was not on duty.

  Fletcher showed his badge to the doorman and told him we were going up for some further forensic work in 1101.

  “Will you need a key?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” I said before Whit could answer.

  After we were in the elevator, Fletcher asked me, “You got a key to the place, Hubert?”

  “No.”

  “Neither do I. It’s bad enough me coming down here with a suspect. I could lose my badge. And I sure as hell wasn’t about to be seen goin’ in to the property room to get our key, so how you figurin’ to get in?”

  “You told me you wanted this visit to be quick and simple, so I guessed you didn’t want to hang around in the lobby while the doorman searched for the spare key and then maybe had you sign it out or something.”

  “Yeah, I don’t need to be signing anything, but quick and easy won’t mean much if we can’t get in.”

  “Trust me.”

  “Trusting you puts acid in my stomach, but it usually puts a few dollars in my pocket, so do what you gotta do.”

  He ran a pocketknife between the door and the jamb neatly slicing all the yellow tape. When he finished, I took out my piece of plastic and loided the door.

  “Jesus, Hubert, you really are a burglar.”

  I had given him most of the background, and when he found out what the pots were worth, he agreed to go along with me. He started searching the apartment and I sat down and went through all the papers in the drawer of the hutch. I found what I thought I needed. He didn’t find anything, but I really didn’t expect him to.

  “Wh
ere’s the chalk outline of the body?”

  “We don’t do that no more, Hubert. We got these photographers that take a bunch of pictures. You didn’t kill him, did you?” It wasn’t a question.

  I shook my head.

  “Well then you wouldn’t know where he was. We found him slumped over on that couch.”

  I walked over and looked around. “There’s not much blood.”

  “Geez, I guess all the detectives and the lab techs must’a missed that, but thanks for pointin’ it out to me.”

  “Sorry, Whit. I just thought there would be more blood.”

  “Well, you’re right, Hubert. It bothered us at first, too. But take a look at that stain on the back of the couch. You see how it’s sort of swirly? We figure there was more blood but the murderer wiped most of it off.”