Pot Thief Who Studied Pythagoras Page 18

  Most people think they could copy a Mondrian or a Jackson Pollock. After all, how hard is it to paint rectangles or splatter paint on a canvas? Susannah says it’s harder than it looks. Maybe. But how hard can it be to paint a canvas solid white?

  But I was glad he painted it. Because when it hit the screen, the big bright white space was like turning on the lights. Susannah sat a few rows up. I crept up and tapped her on the shoulder.

  “Hubie! What are you doing here?”

  “Meet me out in the hall.”

  I paced outside while Susannah gathered her books and notes.

  “This better be an emergency, Hubert. Casgrail hates it when people leave her lectures.”

  “It is an emergency. Guvelly’s in my shop.”

  “So what? He’s been there before.”

  “Yeah, but this time is different.”

  She stiffened and said, “Different how?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Jesus Christ! I knew you were going to say that.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “How should I know? Shouldn’t we just call the police?”

  “Maybe. But I think he was murdered, and considering the situation—”

  “What makes you think he was murdered?”

  “I don’t know. You think he just had a heart attack while searching my shop?”

  “Did you check for blood or a wound or something?”

  “Are you kidding me? It was all I could do to feel for a pulse, and I only did that after I heard no breathing.”

  “Did he have a pulse?”

  “I don’t think so. His arm was cold.”

  “Oh, shit. We have to go look.”

  I drove us back to Old Town. I took the flashlight from the Bronco. We crept up to Guvelly’s body and shined the flashlight on him. There was a hole in the middle of his forehead.

  “I think he was shot,” I said.

  “That’s a small hole.”

  “Big enough,” I replied.

  “I mean it must have been a small-caliber weapon.”

  “You’re the ranch girl. I’ll take your word for it.”

  “Help me roll him over.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to see if there’s much blood on the floor.”

  “Oh, God,” I said as much to myself as to Susannah, “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

  Given Guvelly’s girth, he would have been hard to move alive, but as—excuse the expression—dead weight, it was all the two of us could do to turn him over. There was almost no blood on the floor.

  We stood in silence for a couple of minutes. My mind was blank.

  “Hubie, he’s already cold and he didn’t bleed on your floor. That means he wasn’t shot here.”

  “Someone killed him and dumped him here?”

  “There’s no other explanation.”

  “But who? Why? I don’t—”

  “We have to call the police. They might suspect you at first, but they’ll be able to tell how long he’s been dead, and they’ll know like I do that he wasn’t killed here. So they won’t suspect you once they start their investigation.”

  “I don’t know, Suze. What if you’re wrong? No offense, but you’re not a forensic scientist.”

  “What’s the alternative? You want to put him in the back of your Bronco and dump him in the river?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Well, do I call the police now?”

  “Wait—the camera! If someone brought him here, I’ll have a picture of it on my laptop.”

  I powered up the device and double clicked on the door icon. But then I saw that the most recent picture was of Doak. I still hadn’t moved the camera out of the kitchen.

  I stared at the screen feeling stupid. But as I looked at the long list of times, something dawned on me. I scrolled down all the way to the first day Tristan showed me how the software keeps a record of every time the beam is interrupted. I looked at the record from the time before the camera was installed, and I had that feeling you get when you’re trying to prove a theorem in math and just can’t see how to do it. Then suddenly it comes to you and all the rest of the steps fall into place. I explained it to Susannah just to make sure I wasn’t crazy and she got it immediately.

  We decided not to call the police per se. We called Whit Fletcher.

  51

  The story appeared in the paper the next morning. A federal agent had been shot and foul play was suspected. Hubert Schuze had been questioned, but police would not say whether he was a suspect. They called me a person of interest. Of course I’ve always secretly thought I was a person of interest. Because of the ongoing investigation, no further details were available.

  After reading the paper, I was in no mood for breakfast. I went directly to the country club where I had been summonsed again. I had another five-dollar coffee.

  Layton folded his paper and placed it on the banquet next to him.

  “I can explain that story,” I said.

  He waved a hand. “I know all about it. At present I’m more interested in another matter. I have it on good authority that you had recent dealings with Brandon Doak.”

  I almost choked on my coffee. “How could you know that?”

  “I don’t wish to sound melodramatic, Hubert, but it is my business to know things. I represent a client whose daughter has been ill-treated by Mr. Doak. In the course of our investigations, our operatives reviewed the security camera tapes from the Valle del Rio Museum. Despite your disdain for museums, you have made two recent visits. And your lady friend also visited. Our operatives found a security guard who remembers a man of your description leaving the Museum in the company of Mr. Doak.”

  “I think it’s Dr. Doak. He has a Ph.D.”

  “It will be simply Doak when I finish with him. My client is an influential individual, and with my estimable help, we could no doubt make Doak rue the day he mistreated the young lady. However, my client values his privacy and that of his daughter, so we prefer to find a private way to address the matter. Do you understand?”

  I nodded.

  “Excellent. Now please tell me the nature of your dealings with Mr. Doak.”

  I told him the entire story. When I finished, he folded his large linen napkin and placed it next to the newspaper. He sat there thinking. Actually, I think it went beyond simple thinking. I believe he was ruminating.

  He finally spoke. “I assume you still have the pot that was previously in the Museum?”

  “I do,” I said, appreciating his delicate phrasing.

  “Excellent. Have it delivered to me today. And be at the Foundation ball tomorrow night at six o’clock sharp. You do have a waistcoat, do you not?”

  “I do not. And I don’t normally attend—”

  “Hubert,” he said, looking straight into my eyes, “this is not an invitation. It is a summons. You have a theft and two murder charges dangling above you like the sword of Damocles. But after the ball, you, like Cinderella, will be happy you attended.”

  There is no arguing with Layton. I got up to leave and he had one last directive for me.

  “Bring that charming young lady you date. You know the one I mean. She’s from the Inchaustigui family.”

  52

  “‘The young lady you date?’ He called me that?”

  “He did. He also seems to know your family.”

  “How would he know my family?”

  “I don’t know. All I can tell you is what he told me: ‘I don’t wish to sound melodramatic, Hubert, but it is my business to know things.’”

  “Well, I don’t care if he knows Santxo the Great. I’m not going to some grand ball just because he wants me to.”

  “Who is Santxo the Great?”

  “He was the king of the Basqu
es about a thousand years ago. It was the last time they had any semblance of nationhood. And don’t try to change the subject. That lawyer of yours is a pompous jackass.”

  “Agreed. But I have to go, and I don’t know who else I could get as a date.”

  “We don’t date, Hubie. We’re friends.”

  “Then come along and be my friend.”

  “You’ll be fine without me.”

  “Suze, I was in the morning paper in connection to a murder. I’ll be lucky if they don’t throw me out. You’re the one person I can count on. Besides, I bet you look great in an evening dress.”

  “I do, as a matter of fact. And you’re wearing tails?”

  “I am.”

  “Well, that should be worth the price of admission.”

  “You’ll do it?”

  “Geez, Hubie. I’ve helped you steal a pot from UNM, kicked down the door to an apartment in Los Alamos and turned over a dead man in your shop. Going to a grand ball will be a piece of cake.”

  We got Angie’s attention and ordered a second round of cosmopolitans, a drink made with vodka, triple sec, cranberry juice and lime juice. I had argued that since triple sec was back in stock, we should go back to margaritas, but Susannah was taking this variety business seriously.

  “What do you think of the cosmopolitans?” she asked.

  “They make me want a turkey sandwich.”

  I told her what Layton had said about Doak.

  “Why didn’t you tell me that at the outset? I’d go to the ball in a barrel if it helped Layton pin something on Doak.”

  “Umm, speaking of what you’ll be wearing, you won’t have on high heels, will you?”

  “No, Hubert, I thought perhaps a pair of flip-flops. Of course I’ll be in heels. What else would I wear with an evening gown?”

  “Will they be very high?”

  “Why this sudden … Oh. They won’t be terribly high, but I don’t think it will matter. You’ll look ten feet tall when they find out what you’ve done.”

  53

  The theme was “rodeo chic.” The ballroom of the Club was festooned with saddle-shaped foil cutouts. The tablecloths were pinto pony print and the centerpieces constructed from spurs. Thankfully, the light was low.

  Susannah was refulgent in a pink satin strapless evening gown and rhinestone boots. I was decked out in a gray morning coat with tails, a turquoise velvet vest and a bolo tie, the last two items suggested by Susannah.

  Mariella Kent wore a gold sequined bustier top and shimmering silver see-through skirt that looked like it was woven from angel hair. Underneath it were pearlescent chaps. As hard as it may be to believe, it actually looked classy. She asked me for the first dance, and I noticed all eyes were on us. Good thing my mother made me take dancing lessons.

  I assumed the eyes were meant for her, but a few minutes into the dance, an older lady cut in and whirled me across the floor.

  “I must say, Mr. Schuze, you are terribly handsome in tails.”

  Only her lips moved. I think the rest of her face had been botoxed. She was at least fifteen years my senior, but her skin was tight, her figure taut and her makeup expertly applied. She held me rather closer than I would have liked.

  She put her cheek next to mine, and I feared sweet nothings were forthcoming. “You mustn’t let the press get you down. Everyone knows how classless reporters are, one step above carnival people. I can assure you that everyone here admires you. Why, I can’t imagine anyone more—”

  At this point another older lady cut in and said, “It’s sooo exciting to be dancing with a celebrity.”

  I just smiled.

  “I don’t think you killed that awful Guvelly person,” she confided, “but if you did, I’m sure you had a good reason for doing so.”

  I smiled again.

  My next partner was a buxom, silver-haired Hispanic lady whose perfume clung to me even more tightly than she did. “My husband is a major advertiser in that paper, and I told him he has to speak to them about the way they treated you in that article. They made it sound like you were already guilty. And what if you were? Did they even mention extenuating circumstances?”

  I finally realized she was waiting for an answer. “No,” I said, “they didn’t.” And then just to keep up my end of the conversation, I added, “They didn’t think about self-defense either, did they?”

  She let out a slight moan of titillation and held me even closer.

  And so the evening went. The good news was that almost everyone I danced with was shorter than me, perhaps because of osteoporosis. It seems that the club set love mixing with dangerous felons so long as they are properly attired.

  When the orchestra took a break, I headed for the bar for some liquid courage in case the next round of dancing was like the first. I was momentarily disappointed that the champagne on offer was not Dom Pérignon. Perhaps that was expecting too much even for this crowd. But when I saw they were serving Gruet, my disappointment evaporated like mist on a desert morn. I asked the bartender for two glasses, and turned to leave with one in each hand. Plan A was to find Susannah and offer her a glass. Plan B, in case she was nowhere to be found, was to drink both glasses. Both plans were temporarily stymied by Sven Nordquist.

  He wore a traditional tuxedo but had done nothing to acknowledge the theme of the event. He could at least have worn his turquoise bracelet. The tux emphasized his height, and the cummer­bund his rigid torso, a fixed point about which his arms seem to flail like streamer flags on a metal pole.

  His berry scent preceded him to the bar, and his bottomless blue eyes glinted with disdain. “Look at you, Hubert, the perfect picture of the bourgeoisie, a glass of champagne in each hand.”

  I was in a charitable mood. “Would you like one,” I said, extending a glass.

  “I don’t drink alcohol,” he said.

  “Can’t handle the firewater?”

  “That’s racially insensitive and not funny.”

  “Well,” I said, “if you’re not drinking, what are you doing at the bar?”

  “I was discussing a donation with one of the patrons.”

  “It’s a fundraiser for the Foundation, Sven. Are you going to insult their hospitality by trying to siphon off money for ARRIS?”

  “The Foundation is a bastion of colonialism. I merely offer them a chance to set right some of the wrongs they have done.”

  One of my many faults is that I rarely give up on people. Maybe I’m a slow learner. “Sven,” I said, “do you ever listen to yourself? Nobody takes that sort of rhetoric seriously anymore. Can’t you try to help the Indians without making it a cosmic struggle?”

  He tossed his hair and walked away. I shrugged. Why let him spoil an otherwise exciting evening? And, anyway, I was glad he hadn’t accepted the proffered glass of Gruet.

  Layton appeared next to me and asked, “Who is that person, Hubert?”

  “Sven Nordquist,” I told him, “the executive director of ARRIS.”

  “Sounds like a deodorant. He’s been pestering our guests, and that is unsupportable. I can’t imagine how he was admitted.”

  Then he looked at me. “Not me,” I said. “He’s the last person I would bring.”

  “I’ll speak to security,” he said.

  I found Susannah and gave her the glass of champagne. She needed it since she was steaming.

  “Geez, Hubert, I’ve been drug across the floor and mauled by a dozen men, none of whom was young enough to be my grand­father. Where the hell have you been?”

  “Dancing with their wives.”

  We were silenced by the auctioneer striking his podium three times to signal the beginning of the auction. The items on offer ran the gamut from a lacquered tortoise shell the size of a Volkswagen to a chaise fashioned entirely from elk antlers and leather. A UNM sweatshirt from the Fifties brough
t five thousand dollars. But the big event of the evening was Mariella’s donated pot. It was not the frog pot she had originally meant to donate. It was the Mogollon water jug from the Valle del Rio Museum. The President of the University was the celebrity auctioneer, and he started, as presidents always do, with a speech.

  “Ladies and gentlemen. You will read in the press tomorrow that the director of our Valle del Rio Museum has resigned. We have recently discovered that one of our prize holdings, a Mogollon water jug, was actually a fake. I assure you that this discovery has nothing to do with the resignation of the director.” Then he paused for effect. “I also assure you that our football team will be undefeated next year.” The audience broke into excited laughter. Even though I try to pay no attention to such things, it’s impossible to grow up in Albuquerque without knowing that the Lobos have a history of futility when it comes to football. So the president’s irony was lost on no one.

  He held his hand up for quiet. “Fortunately, the original has been recovered by Mr. Hubert Schuze, one of our graduates. Please stand up and take a bow, Hubert.”

  After I did that, the President invited Mariella to the podium. “I believe you all know this lovely lady.” Of course there was thunderous applause. “She and her husband—I can’t recall his name but I believe he practices law.” He let the laughter continue, basking in it until he finally held his hand aloft. “Mariella and that lawyer husband of hers commissioned Mr. Schuze to recover this pot, and they are now generously offering it at auction. They will match whatever price is bid, and the total of the bid and their match will endow a scholarship at the University. There is one small proviso. The high bidder will not get to keep the pot. It will be returned to the University. However, you will have a plaque by the pot with your name on it. Would it be crass for me to mention that the size of the plaque will be proportionate to the size of … Of course it would, so I won’t mention it.”