The Pot Thief Who Studied Georgia O'Keeffe Page 19

  “Yeah. I told him all about it the morning after we got back from the range. He later reached the same conclusion you did, that Wilkes followed us and dug it up.”

  “See, just like César. Glad was getting inside information. So someone shows up with the pot. Did he know Wilkes had offered thirty thousand for it?”

  I shook my head, not as a negative answer but as a sign of disgust. “Yes, I told him that too.”

  “So Wilkes gives Glad the thirty thousand. Wilkes sells it to Diego for fifty, cutting you out of the deal.”

  I thought about her scenario for a few seconds.

  “Wilkes was like Thelma—not very trusting. I can’t see him handing over thirty thousand in cash to a guy who just happens to be minding my shop. He would have waited to deal with me directly.”

  “Okay. Maybe it wasn’t Wilkes. It must have been the MP.”

  “We already dismissed that possibility, remember? Unless he figured anyone who pees on his pants is a pot thief, he’d have no reason to think I buried anything.”

  “Let’s walk this cat forward,” she said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Detective talk, Hubie. You buried the pot. You splashed some water on your pants. You told the MP you couldn’t hold it any longer and that’s why we stopped. He asked to see your ID. You showed him your driver’s license. He checked it against his list. We left the range … Wait—that’s it! The MP dug up that pot. We were wrong to think he had no reason to go look around where you had been. He had a very good reason. You weren’t on that list. He created it at the Trinity Site, remember? He added my name when I arrived. But you never went to the site. So when he compared your driver’s license to the list and saw you weren’t on it, he knew you’d been prowling around all day. And when he glanced at your pants, it wasn’t the wet spot he was interested in. It was the canteen and the binoculars. He may not have known you were a pot thief, but he knew something was fishy.”

  She was right that I make fun of her attempts to apply detective fiction to real life, but in this case it worked. Not the Glad/César part—I wasn’t buying that. But the walking-the-cat part. All she had to do was just list all the facts and see where it led.

  “So,” she continued, “he walks down the path you had come from just to look around. He spots the rebar. He digs under it out of curiosity and finds the pot.”

  “Okay, I can buy that. But then what?”

  “It’s not any trick to find you—he saw your name and address when he looked at your license. He goes to the shop hoping to sell you your own pot.”

  “Some might quibble about it being mine.”

  “Not the MP. An old pot is hardly a threat to national security. So he figures to pick up some easy money. He finds Glad instead of you. The MP has nothing to hide, so he puts the pot on the counter and asks if you’re around. Glad says no but he can transact business on your behalf. So Glad buys the pot and kills Carl Wilkes.”

  “What? How did the killing Carl Wilkes part get in there?”

  “I’m way ahead of you, Hubie. Carl comes in and Glad tells him he has the pot and will sell it to him for—say for the sake of argument—twenty-five thousand, thus saving Carl five thousand. But only if Carl promises to say nothing to you about it. Carl rejects the deal. He either tells Glad he’s going to tell you about the offer or maybe Glad was just afraid he would, so Glad kills Carl to shut him up.”

  “I don’t know, Suze. You’re the one who said I tended to overlook Carl’s dark side. Now you’re saying he put principle above money. And why would Glad commit murder just to keep from being embarrassed when I found out he tried to cut me out of my own deal? It’s not illegal for him to buy a pot someone brings to the store. Unethical maybe, but not illegal.”

  “There was a lot more at stake than embarrassment. Glad knew the pot was worth big bucks. He killed Carl for the money. Which he got when Haggard came to the shop. Jack didn’t have any scruples about cutting you out of the deal. So Glad got twenty-five thousand for the pot, and Haggard made the same amount when he sold it to Diego.”

  “If Haggard got the pot, why did he come to my shop asking about it?”

  “Maybe he didn’t know Regina’s name and was hoping Carl had told you.”

  It was all speculation, of course. But it made sense.

  Then I remembered trying to show Fletcher the picture of Haggard.

  “Let’s look on the computer.”

  The way it works … no, I don’t know how it works. I just know what happens. I lift the screen and the laptop displays a list of dates and times starting from the most recent. Double-clicking on a date/time opens the picture snapped at that moment. I have to be careful not to click anything else. Doing so causes all manner of messages to pop up on the screen, most of them announcing that updates are ready to be installed for various programs that may or may not be related to the program Tristan installed to display the photos. I hit the X’s on the upper-right corners of the boxes until all of them disappear. I probably have the most out-of-date computer in New Mexico.

  The first time on the list was fifteen minutes ago, Susannah caught in full stride in the doorway after I buzzed her in.

  The damning photo was about three weeks earlier of a lean and hungry young man with an erect bearing and close-cropped hair.

  “The MP,” said Susannah.

  The snapshot was dated the day after we returned from the Trinity Site open house. The guy had wasted no time cashing in on his find. I had been out running errands.

  Carl Wilkes arrived later on the same day. Well, we already knew that because Glad had reported it. Carl knew I’d gone for a pot and was hoping I had returned with it.

  Haggard arrived the next day. His departing photo was just his back. He appeared to be reaching for the door with both hands. Maybe he had something between his hands. Maybe not.

  Typical of technology. I was now in possession of the useless knowledge that Haggard had not carried a pot into my store. And had no idea if he had carried one away. Maybe I could get Tristan to mount the thing in a tree across the street so we could see people as they leave.

  But regardless of who carried the pot away and when, it substantiated most of Susannah’s theory. I had hoped Jack Haggard was the bad guy. But now it seemed more likely that Glad was the murderer and Jack just a thief.

  A deep sadness settled over me. Carl Wilkes had died protecting our friendship.

  Followed by an equally deep fear. Gladwyn Farthing was dangerous.

  Susannah called Whit Fletcher and explained her theory. He thought it was enough to justify questioning Glad.

  When she hung up, I told her I was leaving to avoid seeing Glad.

  “You should confront him, Hubert, not slink away. He killed your friend.”

  “That’s why we have police, Suze. To confront murderers so we peaceful types don’t have to. Carl was shot. For all we know, Glad carries a pistol in his pocket. Confronting him could be deadly.”

  “Maybe you’re right. We should skip the cocktail hour tonight.”

  “What if he shows up there looking for us?”

  “He’ll be alone as he enjoys his last drink as a free man.”

  I thought that was a bit melodramatic but didn’t say so. I went directly to Sharice’s condo even though we didn’t have a date. She welcomed me as enthusiastically as she does when she expects me.

  She wasn’t prepared to cook for us, so she suggested we give Blackbird Buvette a second try.

  The green chile stew was excellent. Sharice liked her green apple and walnut salad. The Gruet was cold and crisp.

  James Mintars, the menacing black guy, walked over to our table and extended his hand. I took it.

  “I was out of line. I apologize.”

  “Accepted.”

  He nodded and walked away.

  I r
ubbed the hand he had crushed.

  “A man of few words,” I said, and Sharice laughed.

  52

  I approached Spirits in Clay with trepidation the next morning. I wondered if Glad was lurking inside.

  Which sort of demonstrates why I was afraid to confront him. I don’t possess that kind of nerve.

  I let myself in quietly and listened. Silence.

  A piece of paper on the floor just inside the door read, “Hubie—see the hoarding.”

  Was it written to me or about me? Either way, it was as cryptic as one of Faye Po’s sayings.

  I tiptoed to the counter. No one was crouched behind it.

  I opened the door to the workshop. He wasn’t waiting for me with one of my clay knives raised above his head. Nor was he in the residence in back.

  I went to the shop he rented. He wasn’t there either. I guessed he was in jail.

  No progress had been made on the shop. There were no plimsolls. No jumpers or swimming costumes. Nor any shelves to display them on.

  I felt stupid. I had missed the obvious fact that the shop was a ruse. He was not in the retail business. He was in the con-man business. And I had been his mark.

  In retrospect, there had been clues. I’d met him at the Business After Hours event when he got in line directly behind me. Was it really a coincidence? He offered to rent my shop for the exact amount I was paying for it. Another coincidence? He was the one who offered to mind the shop for a reduction in the rent. Now I knew why.

  I returned to my shop and took inventory, fearful that he had fled with as many pots as he could carry. Maybe that was what the word hoarding referred to—he was taunting me now that he was gone.

  But all the pots were still there.

  Also there—still taped to the counter—was the list of the thirteen people who had adopted one of my pots in hopes of eventually buying it. I called the one who had bought the Anasazi with the crooked bottom and the small crack.

  When I identified myself to him, he said he was busy and abruptly hung up.

  What a dunce I’d been. I’d actually felt grateful when Glad told me he’d sold that pot for ten thousand. It was marked at thirty, but I was happy to get the ten.

  Until now. Obviously he got more than ten. Fifteen, maybe twenty. And pocketed the difference. The buyer gave him a check, which Glad passed on to me. And the buyer also gave Glad five or ten thousand in cash.

  So he skimmed maybe ten thousand off the sale of the Anasazi. And twenty-five thousand from Haggard for the real pot if Susannah’s guess was right. At least thirty for the fake if the Edwardses believed it was real. And how did he know about the Edwardses? Because I had told him about them, of course. Just like I told him about Carl and about the Tompiro being buried because of the MP being with Susannah by the side of the road.

  There’s a reason why our knees don’t bend back a full one hundred and eighty degrees. God knew we’d kick ourselves in the ass if they did.

  The Edwardses tapped on the door. I didn’t have the energy to walk over there, so I used the remote to buzz them in.

  Dotty placed a box on the counter. The way things had been going, I expected her to pull out the Tompiro from Susannah’s ranch. Or the Holy Grail, for that matter.

  But what she lifted out of the box was a good deal less dramatic—the first fake I had made. The one Glad had sold them. Well, I thought to myself, at least this makes sense. Susannah had figured it out.

  “Mr. Crozen, Donald and I are very disappointed in you, aren’t we, Donald?”

  “We are,” he said.

  I had given up correcting her various versions of my name. “I’m rather disappointed in myself too.”

  “Well that’s refreshingly forthcoming of you. We thought you would deny it.”

  This was shaping up to be another typical Edwards conversation. “You thought I would deny being disappointed in myself?”

  “No. We thought you would deny that this pot is a fake.”

  “It is a fake. Why would I deny that?”

  Her eyes widened. “Because you sold it to us as the real thing.”

  “I did not sell it to you.”

  “Well, not directly. But you sent your employee to sell it to us.”

  “Did he tell you that?”

  “Of course. And he also told us not to mention it to you because you were doing us an anonymous favor in Carl’s memory.”

  That was the best line Glad could come up with? “But you did mention it to me.”

  “Very discreetly. We didn’t say anything about the purchase. But we thought the least we could do was thank you, didn’t we, Donald?”

  “I believe ‘the least we can do’ were your very words, dear.”

  “But now we know why you didn’t want anything mentioned. It was because you were selling us a fake.”

  I looked at her. “Ms. Edwards.” I looked at him. “Mr. Edwards.” I paused briefly. “I did not sell you this pot. It is a fake. I know that better than anyone because I made it. But I was not satisfied with it. I discarded it. The person who brought you the pot is not my employee.” I decided not to get into details. “He is another shopkeeper who volunteered to occasionally mind my shop when I am gone. He retrieved the fake pot from my trash without my knowledge.”

  “But you saw it when we invited you for cocktails. Why didn’t you say something then?”

  I could see that not going into details might be difficult. “I saw another fake at another person’s house. When I saw yours, I assumed that you had acquired it from that other person.”

  “Good heavens, Mr. Crozen. How many fakes did you make?”

  A reasonable question.

  “I intended to make only one. The first one didn’t turn out as well as I hoped. So I discarded it and made a second.”

  Dotty’s lips began to tremble. “So you have so little regard for us as collectors that you thought you could pass a fake off to us that was so bad you threw it away?”

  She began to sob.

  “There, there, dear,” said Donald, handing her his handkerchief.

  “I did not sell you that pot. I did not authorize anyone to sell it to you. I thought it was in the trash. I have the utmost regard for you as collectors.”

  Three of those sentences were actually true. I couldn’t resist asking how much they paid Glad.

  “We gave him a check for thirty thousand,” Donald said.

  My heart sank. I pictured each of those thirty thousand dollars with little wings, flying in formation behind Glad, who not only looked like Porky Pig but also was a real swine.

  “Of course, I put a stop order on the check as soon as we discovered the pot was a fake.”

  My heart resurfaced. Then I remembered my training as an accountant. “Stop orders are sometimes missed.”

  “Not when the check is that large and drawn on the account of an important customer,” he said with confidence.

  “We still have the money,” said Dotty. “Can you sell us the real one, Mr. Crozen?”

  “Please,” I replied, “call me Hubie.”

  53

  Maj. Marvin Owens looked at the lean and hungry face I had cropped from a printout of the picture of the MP entering Spirits in Clay.

  “Pfc. Harland Wills. What is your interest in him, Mr. Schuze?”

  I had given Major Owens my actual name. It’s hard enough to get on the missile range using your real name. Getting on under an alias is impossible.

  “I attended this year’s Trinity Site open house. When I got back home, I realized I had dropped my stepfather’s railroad watch. That watch means a lot to me. My stepfather willed it to me. One of the MPs—did you say his name is Wills?—evidently found it. He brought it to my shop in Albuquerque. I wasn’t there at the time, so he left it with the person who was minding the shop. I was th
rilled to see that watch again. I thought it was gone forever.”

  “And you want to thank him?”

  “I do. He must have gone through a good deal of effort to track me down, since the only identification on the watch is ‘Mortimer Mosley’ engraved on the back.”

  “Your stepfather’s name?”

  “Yes. I want to thank Private Wills in person. And unless there is some regulation prohibiting it, I’d also like to give him a reward.”

  “Although thanking him in person is a fine gesture, it may not be possible. As you probably know, we do not allow civilians to travel around the range, and I can’t call him away from his duties for—”

  “Oh, I didn’t expect to see him here.” I handed him a card. “I was hoping he might come to my shop when he has leave time. The name of the woman who was with me that day is written on the back of my card. The two of them chatted for a while and he might remember her.”

  “Is that how you came to have his picture?”

  “Yes. She took his picture.”

  “The use of cameras is strictly prohibited at the Trinity Site.”

  “She didn’t have a camera. She used her cell phone.”

  “It is the taking of pictures that’s prohibited, not the devices.”

  “Will you give my card to Private Wills?”

  He said he would. The MP who had brought me to Major Owens took me back to the gate.

  It was not the Stallion Gate on the north perimeter of the range. That one is open to civilians only once a year for the Trinity Site event. I had to use the main entrance off US 70 between Las Cruces and Alamogordo. I try to avoid freeways, but Interstate 25 runs directly from Albuquerque to Las Cruces and is the fastest route, an important consideration in this case because I was making the round-trip in one day.

  I broke the return leg up by stopping at Black Cat Books and Coffee in Truth or Consequences for one of each. A book and a coffee, that is. I had abandoned truth with my fictional stepfather and I didn’t want to risk consequences of any type.