The Pot Thief Who Studied Pythagoras (8 page)

I asked for something to read, but that request was denied. I asked for a glass of water and was given one. I thought about asking for bread to go with the water, but decided against it. I kept telling myself I had nothing to worry about. I hadn’t killed Guvelly. I hadn’t entered his room. O.K., perhaps my fingerprints were on the outside of his door. Surely fingerprints on the outside of a door are not enough evidence to convict someone of committing a murder inside the room. I wished I hadn’t said anything to Fletcher, but the notion that I had killed anyone was so ridiculous that I hadn’t taken it seriously until the conversation already had me several miles down the road to perdition. Well, nothing could be done about that now. I determined I would say nothing else and let Layton handle everything. There was nothing to worry about. Except paying his bill; he is the most expensive attorney in town. Of course if I stole the pot at UNM and Wilkes paid me twenty-five thousand…

What was I thinking? Here I was at the police station being questioned for murder, and I was considering committing a burglary to pay for my defense against the murder charge. And I’m not even a burglar. Unless I had beginners’ luck, I would probably be caught in the act.

I drank more water and finally had to ask to go to the restroom. I hadn’t required permission to do that since the seventh grade. It’s humiliating— especially with a deputy watching.

Layton Kent, Esquire finally showed up and carted me away in his Rolls. I know he has an office somewhere, but he seems to conduct most of his business from his table overlooking the 18
^th
green at his club.

Layton and his wife, Mariella, are one of the most prominent couples in town. His clients are frequently other lawyers who use him to set up corporations, trusts, and other scams for their ill-gotten but perfectly legal gains. They use him because he doesn’t practice criminal law and is therefore not seen as a competitor.

Despite the nature of his practice, Layton condescended to get me out of jail when I was under suspicion for murder because Mariella, who is said to be a descendent of Don Francisco Fernandez de la Cueva Enriquez, Duque de Alburquerque, the man after whom our fair city is named, is an avid collector of traditional Native American pots from New Mexico’s pueblos, and I am her personal dealer. Whether she is in fact descended from El Duque is subject to debate. So far as history records, Enriquez never crossed the Atlantic. However, Ms. Kent is a nice lady, and it would be ungallant to question her lineage. Not to mention bad for business.

My trim behind and Layton’s ample one had just hit the leather seats of his table when we were suddenly surrounded by other diners wanting to make sure they were seen with and by Layton, and solicitous staff were placing chilled flutes in front of us and cloth napkins on our laps.

The cadaverous looking captain appeared and with a bottle of Dom Perignon and said, “Shall I pour, Mr. Kent?”

“Yes, Phillip, please.”

Layton sipped the champagne and indicated his satisfaction with a long sigh. I was hoping to be included in this largess, and I was not disappointed. Dom Perignon may be a notch or two above New Mexico’s own Gruet, but it costs a hundred dollars a bottle wholesale, so I stick to the Gruet which is available for thirteen bucks at the discount store and tastes almost like the French original.

Layton is six feet tall and although he probably weighs close to three hundred pounds, he is light on his feet and has only one chin, albeit a very large one that extends from his jaw to the bottom of his neck without any sign of an Adam’s apple. He was wearing a taupe wool suit with a gold silk tie and matching handkerchief. The collar of his hand-tailored shirt rolled in such a way that it seemed to embrace his neck, creating a snug and neat fit without allowing any of Layton’s skin to hang over the collar.

“Chef Marcel has sage hens, today, Mr. Kent,” said Phillip.

“Excellent. We’ll both have that,” he said. I was never given a menu.

“We’re having chicken with sage?” I asked in surprise. Sage is an excellent herb for fowl, but the menu at Layton’s club runs more to haute cuisine.

“They are not chickens, Hubert; they are sage hens. They are relatives of the grouse and live in and feed off the sage in Wyoming so that they have a natural sage flavor unlike anything that can be imparted by applying herbs externally to a domestically raised bird.”

“Oh.”

“Marcel usually stuffs them with morels, but it may be too early in the year for morels. In that case, he may have some porcini. Also excellent, though I prefer the morels.”

I would prefer one of Consuela’s chicken enchiladas, I thought to myself, but said nothing.

“Now,” he said, “tell me who you are thought to have murdered and why they think it.”

I told him the almost whole story, Wilkes coming to my store and tempting me to steal the Mogollon water jug from the Valle del Rio Museum, Guvelly coming to my store and accusing me of stealing the other Mogollon water jug from Bandelier, and my visit to the Hyatt, both the eleventh and the ninth floors. I know you’re supposed to tell your lawyer everything, but I didn’t tell him about my visit to the Museum.

Our sage hens arrived, stuffed with morels, and I have to admit they were delicious. If I thought they served food like that in the prison up the road in Cerrilos, I might have been willing to be sent there for the murder of Guvelly.

Layton doesn’t discuss business while he eats, so we were both able to enjoy the meal.

He ordered “mango scented flan” for desert, but I declined. We got back to business over coffee.

Kent started by saying, “I don’t understand why the police don’t know the name of the victim; the innkeepers statute in this state is quite clear; every guest must be registered under his or her true and legal name. You say this Guvelly showed you his badge?”

“Yes, but I didn’t really get a good look at it.”

“You should have insisted. There might be a problem with his identity, which would explain why the local authorities haven’t formally charged you.”

“How so?”

“They may have discovered he is not who he represented himself to be, and while they can charge you with murder even without knowing the name of the victim, it could make getting a true bill from the grand jury more difficult for them later on. So they could be trying to identify him before formally charging you.”

“They might arrest me again?”

“You weren’t arrested, Hubert; you were merely detained. And if they do arrest you or make any contact with you, you must notify me immediately. And for God’s sake, say absolutely nothing.”

14

Miss Gladys Claiborne must have been watching for me because just moments after I finally got back home, she showed up with a dish she called Chicken Delight. I briefly considered inquiring into the origin of the name but decided against it. Odds are it was dreamed up by some elegant Texan woman named Delight.

The dish centers on chicken tenders, a piece of the chicken I am not familiar with. The tenders are combined with canned French-cut green beans, cream of chicken soup, and a crust made of crumbled shoestring potatoes from a can. Yum.

I begged off on the grounds that I had just had a large lunch with Layton, but I made the mistake of telling the truth when she asked if I had eaten dessert, so I had to agree to eat the one she had brought, a rectangle of lime Jell-O with crushed pineapple and miniature marshmallows.

I seemed to remember Susannah telling me that Jell-O has something in it that’s good for you, so with that in mind I was able to down the dessert.

“How do you like it?” she asked.

I nodded to indicate it was good. I was trying to chew it, but it kept squishing away from my teeth.

“A very rude man came to my shop the other day, Mr. Schuze. He works for the government and I’m certain he must be a Yankee because he had no manners to speak of.”

“Was his name Guvelly?”

“I believe it was. I could scarcely understand him when he spoke.”

“Did he say he was investigating me?”

“I’m not supposed to tell you that,” she said and winked.

“Well, he believes I stole a pot from the Headquarters Building at Bandelier, but of course I didn’t.”

“Of course you didn’t. And I think it’s very rude of him to talk to your neighbors behind your back. I told him so. I also told him there’s not a reason in the world why you would steal a pot. You can make any pot you want. You are so talented; I do wish you would make some small pieces for me to sell in my shop.”

“I may do that one of these days. And thanks for telling me about Guvelly coming to see you.” I could have said she wouldn’t need to worry about another visit from him now that he was dead, but I didn’t. I just thanked her for the dessert.

She beamed. “I’ll just leave the Chicken Delight. You can have it tomorrow. Mr. Claiborne always said the mark of a good casserole is that it gets better each day. I do declare I think he was right; the flavors seem to strengthen in the icebox.”

15

I switched the Chicken Delight from Miss Gladys Claiborne’s china to a plastic storage container and ran it by Tristan’s apartment; he’ll eat anything.

Then I drove back to Old Town for the cocktail hour, speculating that the Margarita should sit well on the Jell-O since they are both lime-flavored.

A brief shower dampened my windbreaker as I crossed the plaza, but it disappeared as I reached Dos Hermanas as if to remind me of our capricious spring weather.

The freshet dropped the temperature into the fifties, so I kept my jacket zipped up to my neck. The Dom Perignon hadn’t completely worn off, and poor Margarita was languishing on the table unsipped.

Susannah was wearing jeans, a white western shirt with an embroidered yoke, and a blue quilted vest. “So,” she said, “you want to tell me about your new girlfriend?”

I was still thinking about the pending murder charge, and I looked at her blankly. Then it came to me. “Kaylee?”

“She’s attractive in an earthy sort of way, Hubert. I imagine you two had quite a time last night.”

I shook my head. “It was quite a time alright. I had to threaten her with the police, wash her clothes, and feed her. Then this morning she threw a champagne bottle at me.”

“A lover’s spat so early in the relationship?”

“Lover’s spat? Don’t even kid about it. Whit Fletcher was there when she threw the champagne, and he started asking me about her age, because he thought… well.”

She leaned back in her chair and smiled. “I know what he thought, Hubert. And according to Kaylee, he was right.”

“What do you mean?”

“She said she slept with you.”

“What! That’s completely…”

“Calm down, Hubie; I know you didn’t.”

Forget the lingering Dom Perignon; I took a large sip of my margarita. “She actually said that?”

“Actually, she said she slept in your bed, but it was obvious she wanted me to think you were in it with her.”

“Why would she say that?”

“Judging from the marks on her face, she’s had a recent unfortunate relationship with a man. She’s alone and broke with nowhere to go. You take her in, feed her, let her get cleaned up, and give her a warm place to sleep. She doesn’t know how to relate to men except through sex and violence. You’re not violent, so that leaves sex.”

“I thought you stopped majoring in psychology.”

“I did, Hubie, but I didn’t forget everything. Anyway, you don’t have to be a psychologist to realize that she sees you as a good thing, a safe haven, and in her world the only way to make sure she can stay with you is to give you her body.”

“Well, she can keep it. Where is she?”

“I turned her over to Father Groaz.”

“Good move. He’ll know what to do, and I won’t have to deal with her.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that, Hubie.”

I asked warily, “Why do you say that?”

“Because any place he puts her, a shelter for example, is not going to be as appealing to her as you and your house, so when she gets the chance, she’ll leave there and come back to you. It’s like feeding a stray cat, Hubie; they always come back.”

“Oh great.” We ordered a second round, and when it arrived I didn’t even care if it tasted as good as the first; I took a large refreshing gulp of it.

I sat there staring into the fire and then realized after a moment that Susannah was talking.

“…like a fairy tale. We gazed into each other’s eyes over drinks, shared a romantic meal, danced until the orchestra went home…”

Then I remembered that while I had been fending off Kaylee, she had been fending off the L.A. guy.

“…and then went back to his hotel where he started a fire. We laid down in front of it…”

Or maybe not.

“…and he kissed me and then …”

“I’m happy for you, Suze, but I don’t think I need the details of what happened next.”

“Suffice it to say it was great,” she said while her head lolled to one side.

“I suffice,” I said.

“You know what, Hubie; he may be the one,” she said.

“I hope so.”

“Do I detect some doubt, Hubie?”

“I just don’t want you to get hurt. I’m glad the two of you are off to a great start, but he’s in Los Angeles and you’re in Albuquerque, and long distance romances can be tricky.”

She laughed. “How would you know; you’ve never been out of New Mexico.”

“I went to Mexico once.”

“You went to Juarez, part of which borders on New Mexico.”

“But I went through El Paso, and that’s in Texas.”

She sighed. “Hubie, this is not a discussion about your travels or lack thereof. But you’re right about long distance romances. And the great thing is he knows that. He said we need to start slow and see how things progress, so he’ll be stopping here every few weeks as his travel schedule allows, and we’ll see how things develop.”

“Sounds like a good idea.”

I put my finger in my margarita and swirled the ice counterclockwise.

“Geez, Hubie, you don’t sound exactly thrilled about my new romance.”

“Sorry, Suze. Nothing would please me more than you finding the right man. It’s just that I’m a little preoccupied tonight.”