The Pot Thief Who Studied Georgia O'Keeffe Page 13

  “I know the canvas is dirty and has a little tear in it, but if you cleaned it up and stretched in on a frame, it would look good enough to sell.”

  “The reason she says I have to give it away is not because it’s torn and dirty. It’s because I don’t own it.”

  “Of course you own it. Baltazar gave it to you.”

  “Yes, but it wasn’t his to give. He didn’t own it.”

  “He found it in the woods.”

  “That doesn’t make it his. O’Keeffe never sold that painting, so her estate owns it.”

  “That’s ridiculous. She never even finished it. She probably didn’t like the way it was going so she tossed it away.”

  She was shaking her head. “Artists don’t throw away paintings that aren’t going well. They just keep working on them. And if they do give up, they save the canvas and paint something different on it. That’s how we get a pentimento.”

  I couldn’t resist. “I thought pentimentos grew on bushes and were mixed with cheese after they’re harvested.”

  “Sheesh. A pentimento is when part of a painting flakes off to reveal an older painting underneath. It’s exciting for art historians to discover a painting under a painting. And sometimes it can even be a clue in a crime.”

  “Don’t tell me—let me guess. Because before they had closed-circuit cameras in banks, they used to hire artists to paint pictures of people at the teller cages demanding that money be put in a bag?”

  “Make fun if you want to, but there was a murder solved when an X-ray of a 1471 Flemish painting revealed a painted-over message.”

  “I don’t think they had X-rays in 1471.”

  “The painting was from 1471, Hubert. The X-ray was done just a few years ago by a woman named Julia, who was restoring the picture for a client who wanted to sell it.”

  “How did the painted-over message solve a murder?”

  “The message under the paint was Quis Necavit Equitem.” She turned to look at me, excitement in her eyes. “You can help me because you know Latin. I know the phrase means ‘who killed the knight,’ and I figure Quis must mean who. But which word is knight?”

  “Good question. Technically the word knight is not in there. Equitem comes from equus—horse. So it refers to someone who owns a horse, hence, a knight. Equitem is the accusative.”

  “Why accuse the knight? He was the one who was killed.”

  I decided letting her get on with the story was better than explaining Latin declensions. “So whodunit?”

  “I don’t remember who killed the knight, but I know who killed Julia’s friends.”

  “Huh? I thought Julia was the contemporary person restoring the painting. Why should her friends have anything to do with the killing of a knight in the fifteenth century?”

  “It’s all part of the chess game. This is perfect for you—chess and Latin.”

  I was beginning to feel lightheaded. “A chess match?”

  “Yes. The painting depicts a nobleman and a knight playing chess while a young woman watches. The floor of the room they’re in is tiled in black and white like a chessboard. So in addition to the arrangement of the pieces on the actual chess board, the three people in the painting are located on a floor that can also be seen as a chess board.”

  “That’s ingenious.”

  “I figured you’d like it. But I had a hard time following the story because some of it depended on knowing that a chess piece in a certain location has a meaning. Like the woman being on a certain square indicating she was in danger of being checkmated.”

  “Women can’t be checkmated. Only the king can be checkmated.”

  “See? I told you I didn’t get it. The notes had abbreviations like Bc4 and Qd8-g5.”

  “What notes?”

  “The notes from the killer.”

  “There were notes from 1471? What were they written on—parchment?”

  “No, no. I’m talking about the contemporary murders. Julia asked her friends to help her figure out who killed the knight, and after they helped her, they were murdered. Someone didn’t want the killer of the knight to be revealed.”

  “After five hundred years?”

  “That seemed odd to me too. The murderer of her friends sent her notes with chess positions on them. So she got a local chess genius to help her figure out who killed the knight and who killed her friends. Can you guess the surprise ending?”

  “Not in five hundred years.”

  “Come on. Give it a try.”

  “Okay. I’m going to guess that the person who killed the knight in 1471 also killed Julia’s friends by biting them in the neck. Which explains how he lived so long—he was a vampire.”

  “Try to be serious.”

  “How can I be serious about such a bizarre story? I know evil geniuses are supposed to send notes to torment the incompetent police who are tracking them, but that only happens in fiction.”

  “This is fiction. The Flanders Panel is a murder mystery by Arturo Pérez-Reverte. It’s a great book.”

  “But you said it was hard to follow.”

  “That’s why they call them mysteries, Hubie. The murderer was someone who was always around when Julia and the chess expert were discussing the notes and trying to make sense of them. That was the surprise part.”

  “I think my vampire twist would’ve been a better surprise.”

  “Admit it. You initially thought I was talking about a real-life murder, didn’t you?”

  “You know what they say—truth is stranger than fiction.”

  “They say that, but you never do. If you read murder mysteries, you might be able to figure out who killed Carl.”

  “You read them. Maybe you can figure it out.”

  “Okay. It’s almost always love or money. Maybe Thelma killed him.”

  “They’ve been separated for years. I don’t think there’s anything between them at this point that would cause a crime of passion.”

  “What about one of those times she told you about when one of them got the urge? Maybe she found Carl satisfying the urge with another woman.”

  “And killed her meal ticket?”

  “That’s why they call it a crime of passion. You’re not thinking about your next meal when you pull the trigger.”

  I just shook my head. “You’d have to meet her. She’s not the murderous sort.”

  “Then it’s money. Regina killed him.”

  “Who is Regina?”

  “The collector.”

  “Oh, right. I admit that’s a possibility.”

  “Or Jack Haggard.”

  “Just because he had a card from a bail bondsman?”

  “That and they were associates. A quarrel between partners in crime often leads to murder.”

  I admitted that was a possibility, although I didn’t go along with her suggestion that Dotty and Donald were suspects, because I had no idea where they fitted in. Or if they did.

  32

  We continued kicking it around as we parked the Bronco and walked to the check-in table lit by generator-powered floodlights because it was still dark.

  The MP—not either of the ones we encountered during our first visit—checked our IDs against the list of registrants and then looked through our backpacks.

  He lofted the faux Tompiro I’d made so as not to arouse suspicion when I departed with the real one. No one would notice it wasn’t the same pot.

  “Why are you bringing a clay pot?”

  “My energy bars are in it.”

  “Most people use Ziploc bags.”

  “It’s my good-luck charm. I’ve never walked twenty-six miles before. I figure I need all the help I can get.”

  He dumped out the granola bars—homemade by Sharice with pearled barley, pomegranate syrup, sesame seeds and coconut flakes.

/>   Yeah, that’s what I thought too, before I tasted them.

  He peered into the empty pot, put the bars back in it, handed it to me and said, “Whatever.”

  Susannah was right about the twenty-sixers being hardcore, especially the ones at the front of the throng. I speculated that the officials were placing people based on how they finished in the New York Marathon or their metabolism rate or body mass index or something. I didn’t care because I didn’t want to be near the front.

  When the starting gun was fired, hundreds of people with not enough sense to be at home and asleep sprinted away. Those boxed in behind jogged on the heels of those ahead, biding their time until a lane for passing opened up.

  Thirty minutes later, Susannah and I had managed to fall far enough behind the twenty-sixers that they wouldn’t notice us if we left the trail. Which would have been true even had we been only a single stride behind, because no one was looking back.

  We were not far in front of the leaders of the fourteeners. They could see us clearly if we left the trail. But when we rounded the next curve, they couldn’t and we did.

  Or rather I did. Susannah stayed by the side of the trail to make sure no one saw me and—if they did—to warn me with a whistle if they decided to head in my direction. After a couple of minutes, I was out of earshot, so she no longer had to worry about whistling and could read the Bernie Rhodenbarr book she brought along. At least she could when it got lighter out.

  It would’ve been perfect had the arroyo I scooted into been the one where I buried the Tompiro. But real life is seldom perfect.

  The topo map had the triangulation marks I’d made when I buried the pot. The sun was still below the horizon, but there was enough light to see the profiles of the peaks. One look at the compass told me I was too far south. How far south I didn’t know. I was using a handheld compass, not professional surveying tools.

  I walked north, checking the angle every five hundred yards or so. When it appeared I was close to the correct angle, I began checking the hill to the west. The closer I got, the slower I went because I had to check more often, and I had to check all three points. I’d just checked the two peaks for about the twentieth time and turned to the hill. I cradled the compass in my hand and looked up to locate the peak just as the sun rose over the Oscura Mountains.

  Those two famous musical notes—ta and da—played in my head. I was standing next to the dune where I buried the pot. Sometimes real life is perfect. I pulled the fake out of my backpack in preparation for making the exchange.

  An hour and a half later, I found Susannah where I’d left her. There were still people scattered along the route as far as I could see in both directions, but they were in small clumps or alone. Some were the stragglers of the fourteeners, some were the twenty-sixers making their second pass at that part of the trail, and some were probably just lost.

  A few people were within earshot, so I didn’t say anything. I took the pot out of my pack, held it in my hand and started walking.

  Susannah fell in next to me and said, sotto voce, “Wow, I knew you were good at copies, but this is beyond amazing. Even though you made it from memory, the real one looks exactly like your copy.”

  “There’s a reason for that,” I said, and heard the emotional pain in my voice. “This is the copy.”

  She stopped. “I thought the plan was to leave the fake here. How are you going to explain arriving with one pot and leaving with two?”

  “I’m not leaving with two. This is the fake, and it’s the only pot I have. The real one is gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “Yeah. Gone. As in not there.”

  “Not there?”

  “Right. As in dug up and carried away.”

  “You must have dug in the wrong place.”

  “Impossible. First, I had the triangulation points from our previous visit, and they all lined up. Second, I recognized the spot. And finally, my rebar was there. Someone stole the pot.”

  “Yeah—you.”

  I was too depressed to argue the pot-thief issue. “Someone stole it from the dune after I stole it from the cliff dwelling.”

  We were silent while an elderly couple passed us. They wore big floppy hats and matching T-shirts that read FIT AS A FIDDLE AND JUST AS STRINGY.

  Susannah started walking again, so I trailed along beside her. After a few seconds she said, “Carl Wilkes.”

  “You think Carl followed us out here?”

  “It would explain how the collector got the pot Thelma said she saw.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “And it would explain why Thelma was so sure Carl paid you for the pot. Because he had it. She just didn’t realize he got it himself rather than from you.”

  “Okay, I agree it all fits. But somehow I can’t see Carl double-crossing me like that.”

  “You’ve always refused to see his dark side.”

  “Thank you, Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

  “Did you tell Carl you were coming out here to look for the pot when they had the Trinity Site visitation event?”

  “I did.” I felt like an idiot.

  “I think that cinches it. He came out here, went to the Trinity Site and hid out behind the crowd. He probably spotted me alone and knew that meant you were off looking for a pot. Remember I told you I was one of the last cars to leave, and I stopped and let people pass until there was no one behind me? One of those people who passed must have been Carl. He made a mental note of where I was. Then he came back and dug up the pot.”

  “How did he get back in?”

  “He was in the Corps of Engineers. Maybe he has connections with someone at the range.”

  “I don’t know, Suze. It all sounds so bizarre.”

  “You have another theory?”

  “Maybe it was that MP. He also saw where we were stopped, and it would be easy for him to go back and dig up the pot since he lives right here on the range.”

  “And he would go back and dig around because … what? He figured anyone who pees on his pants is probably a pot thief?”

  “It was water.”

  “So you claimed. But you have to agree there was no reason for him to think you’d buried a pot. Or anything else for that matter.”

  I nodded and we started walking again.

  When I’d told Fletcher that Carl hadn’t told me the name of the collector, he’d responded, “’Course not. Probably afraid you might cut out the middleman.” Carl was the middleman at that point. As the first man, my job was to find a pot. As the third man—make that third woman—Regina’s job was to buy the pot. And as the middleman, Carl’s job was to make a bundle by moving the pot from me to Regina and making sure Regina and I never met.

  But by stealing the pot from the dune, Carl had cut me out. And now he was dead. My first thought was there had to be a connection. My second thought was that my first thought was from hanging around so much with Susannah.

  Then I remembered that when I told Whit to be careful because Regina might be the murderer, Whit said, “You’d make a lousy cop, Hubert. If the buyer was gonna kill Wilkes, he would’ve done it after he got the pot.”

  Actually, I didn’t tell Whit that Regina might be the killer. I didn’t even know her as Regina at that point.

  But regardless of the name, it made sense that the collector did exactly what Whit said: killed Carl after he delivered the pot.

  33

  There were four MPs checking people on the way out, but the lines were short because most participants stayed for the closing ceremonies, during which awards and citations were given out for things like first place in the marathon, oldest participant, most years of consecutive attendance and so on.

  There was no award for most disappointed participants, so we skipped the ceremony in order to get an early start back to Albuquerque.

  I chose the l
ine with the MP who had checked me in. He looked into my pot and said, “Your energy bars are still in there.”

  “That must explain how tired I feel.”

  He returned the pot and my other belongings.

  Susannah drove the Bronco on the grounds I was so depressed I might run off the road.

  It was past ten when I let myself into my residence. I placed the fake pot on the kitchen table. Geronimo was happy to see me. He must have sensed my mood because instead of begging for food, he plopped down at my feet and stared up at me with those sad eyes.

  I opened the bottle of Gruet I’d planned to drink in celebration. I didn’t feel like cooking, so I reached into the pot and pulled out one of Sharice’s energy bars. It didn’t energize me, but it went great with the champagne. I gave an energy bar to Geronimo. He liked it too. I filled his water bowl and my champagne flute. Even in the bottomless pit of depression, I don’t drink Gruet from the bottle.

  When the alcohol began to kick in, I stopped feeling sorry for myself and started wondering how I was going to avoid foreclosure. I reached for another energy bar, but the pot was empty.

  The pot! That’s it. Sell the fake. Pass it off as real and get $50,000. Like Susannah had said about The Maltese Falcon, although I couldn’t remember exactly how that was similar.

  I congratulated myself for having maintained my craftsmanship even when fabricating a fake I had planned to leave buried in the sand dune. The fake had returned home with me, the plan it was created for having been thwarted by the disappearance of the real pot it was supposed to replace. But the fake was good enough to pass off as the real thing to anyone except a trained expert. And while the buyer I had in mind probably knew more about pots than the average citizen, I didn’t figure him for a true expert.

  It’s against my code of ethics to lie about a fake pot. If someone offers to buy one of my replicas at the price penned on the discreet little tented card in front of it, I see no reason to broach the issue of authenticity. If they ask me whether a pot is genuine, I say, “Of course.”

  Well, it’s a genuine pot, isn’t it?

  But if they ask me whether it’s old, I tell the truth.