The Pot Thief Who Studied D. H. Lawrence Page 3

  “When I was a boy, I found a copy of that book at Duran Central Pharmacy. I hid behind the bookrack and read the pages that were dog-eared. I was hoping for something prurient, but I didn’t understand it either.”

  “It must have been some pharmacy to sell books like that.”

  “It wasn’t just a pharmacy. It was also a café. Still is, but the Duran who runs it now isn’t related to the one who ran it when I was growing up. Maybe the new guy bought it because he wouldn’t have to change the sign. Anyway, it used to have one of those lazy-Susan bookracks. But I didn’t go there to read. I went there to eat. I’d sit at the lunch counter and eat their chile cheeseburgers smothered with homemade green sauce.”

  I knew that both of the Durans who ran the pharmacy were Hispanic, and neither had any relationship to Fidelio Duran, but the coincidence of the names added to the peculiar feeling about the timing of the invitation to the Ranch. I was lost in that thought for a moment and then looked up at Miss Gladys. “Their red and green sauces were wonderful, but I’d wager they never made anything as good as this consommé.”

  She looked at me with a twinkle in her eyes. “I’ll leave you this dessert for later, Mr. Schuze. It’s called cookie salad, and the recipe comes from Chantelle Blackburn.”

  A fitting name for one of Miss Gladys’s friends, I thought, as she described the concoction. “It’s as simple as falling off a log. One small box of instant vanilla pudding mix, 1 cup buttermilk, two 8-ounce containers of frozen whipped topping, two 8-ounce cans of mandarin oranges – drained of course – and one package of fudge-striped cookies crushed into chunks.”

  Yum.

  After Miss Gladys left, I locked up for the night, opened a cold bottle of New Mexico’s finest champagne and settled down with Miss Gladys’ cookie salad.

  You may be perplexed by the phrase, “New Mexico’s finest champagne.”

  I admit our state seems an odd venue for champagne production, but then the grapes are grown in the southern part of the state near Truth or Consequences, which is a strange venue for just about anything other than a meeting of the Odd Place Names Society.

  After one bite of the cookie salad, I decided the Gruet Blanc de Noir deserved better. I’m sure it was a delightful dessert immediately after Miss Gladys assembled it, but it hadn’t worn well. The dressing had turned the crumbled cookies to a soggy mess. Fortunately, I had an excellent substitute on hand – chocolate with Mexican canela and red chile from Chimayo. It’s made here in Albuquerque by an artisanal chocolate kitchen called Cocopotamus.

  As the owner of a pottery shop called Sprits in Clay, I guess I shouldn’t complain about a cutesy name. Because of the canela and chile, I think a Spanish word would be better, but by any name the stuff is addictive.

  I spent the remainder of the evening eating too much chocolate, drinking too much champagne and thinking too much about Fidelio Duran, Dulcinea Duran, the Duran Pharmacy and David Herbert Lawrence.

  7

  The next day at five, I walked over to Dos Hermanas for my regular rendezvous with Susannah, an appointment we keep with almost religious fervor. It serves as a relaxing transition for her between work and class, and it gives me someone to talk to after spending most days with little human contact.

  We talk about old movies, her studies, my illegal capers, her quest for True Romance, and anything else one of us finds of interest. She’s more than just someone to talk to – she’s my partner in crime. In her late twenties with all the enthusiasm and energy of youth, she’s fresh, irreverent, inquisitive and funny. Despite those attributes and being attractive in a girl-next-door sort of way, her love life is rockier than a trout stream.

  We don’t have that much in common. She’s two decades younger, grew up on a ranch and likes sports. I grew up in the city and don’t know a hat trick from a home run. Maybe our differences are the key to our friendship.

  Dos Hermanas has tables both inside and on the veranda. A chill in the air drove us to our favorite inside table against the north wall. After Angie brought our first round, I told Susannah about Cyril Duran.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about it last night? This changes the whole conversation about you going to the Lawrence Ranch.”

  “Sorry, Suze, but it’s embarrassing to admit that a perfect stranger walks into your shop and asks you to steal something. Of course, that’s what Carl Wilkes did when I got mixed up with the Valle del Rio Museum.”

  She smiled at the mention of the museum caper. “Remember when I kicked in the door of Berdal’s apartment?”

  “How could I forget it? O.K., you’re right. I should have told you. I know I’ll need your help again.”

  “What do you need me to do?”

  “How about help me figure out where to look for the pot?”

  “Maybe it’s in a display case right in the Conference Center where you’ll be staying.”

  “I hope it’s buried in the ground. That way I won’t feel so much like a thief if I take it.”

  “Do you even know what it looks like?”

  I handed her the photograph. “The guy in the picture is Duran’s great-grandfather. He made the pot. The picture was taken as he was about to take it to Lawrence.”

  “Did Lawrence collect pueblo pottery?”

  “I have no idea. I know it’s a longshot, but I’d love to find that pot.”

  She gave me that mischievous smile. “What about your claim that you’re not a thief?”

  The thief debate is a staple of our repartee. “You know my logic, Suze. Pots in the ground don’t belong to anyone, so—”

  “I know. They belong to whoever finds them. But despite your wish to the contrary, this pot isn’t likely to be in the ground. It belongs to someone. Maybe Lawrence’s estate or the University.”

  “Duran says it belongs to his great-grandfather who wants it back.”

  “His great-grandfather is still alive?”

  “No, he died long before Cyril was born.”

  “I don’t get it?”

  “His great-grandfather’s spirit told Cyril to bring the pot back home.”

  “You buy that, Hubie?”

  “I’m skeptical but open-minded.”

  I could see the wheels turning as she ran her finger around the rim of her saltless glass. “It’s too much of a coincidence.”

  “What is?”

  “First, you get invited to the Lawrence Ranch. Then right after that, this Duran character asks you steal a pot from the same place.”

  “It wasn’t right after. It was a week or so.”

  She had swung into her mystery mode.

  “Remember when you took that blindfolded ride to appraise a pot collection? Except the guy didn’t really want an appraisal. He wanted you there because you’re a pot thief, and he wanted to frame you for the theft of the pots he stole.”

  I shuddered remembering it.

  “You know why you never see these things coming, Hubert? It’s because you don’t read murder mysteries. There are no coincidences. Duran first had to get you invited to the Ranch. Then he had to entice you to accept the invitation by feeding you that cockamamie story about his great-grandfather. He probably already has the pot, but the people at the Ranch haven’t noticed it missing. So after you return empty-handed because you can’t find the pot, Duran will tip the cops, and you’ll take the fall.”

  I shook my head and took a gulp of my drink, selecting a part of the rim laden with salt. “No way. The pot belongs to his great-grandfather. He gave me that picture of him holding it. He just needs me to retrieve it.”

  She shook her head at my gullibility and held the photo up towards me.

  “Does the guy on the horse look like Duran?”

  “Well, it’s an old picture and cracked, and…”

  “This could be a picture of anyone. And when you’re arrested and tell the police you went there looking for the pot because Duran’s great-grandfather’s spirit told you to, they’ll just laugh at you.”

>   She studied the photo for a moment. “You know what? You might have caught a break this time. Was Duran wearing gloves when he came to your shop?”

  “Indians don’t wear gloves,” I said dismissively.

  “They do in Cleveland,” she said unaccountably. Then she laughed. I don’t know why.

  She wagged the photo over the table. “His fingerprints are on here. That proves it came from him, and he was using it to set you up.” She wrapped the photo carefully in some napkins and dropped it into her purse.

  “Don’t tell me you have a fingerprint kit at home.”

  “Of course not. I’m just saving it for when you get arrested.”

  “I’m not going to get arrested,” I said with more assurance than I felt. I didn’t think Duran would go to all that trouble to frame me for a simple theft, but I had to admit the timing was a worrisome coincidence.

  8

  I awoke late and famished and prepared two helpings of huevos rancheros. I ate one and gave the other to Geronimo, an animal of undetermined ancestry who lives with me. His license says he’s a dog, but he looks part anteater.

  I washed the dishes, showered and shaved, brushed and flossed, put on a pair of tan chinos and a light blue oxfordcloth button-down shirt and stepped out into the crisp New Mexico morning with Geronimo on a leash.

  Then I stepped back inside and put on my windbreaker. The front that arrived after Albuquerque’s rare monsoon had dropped the temperature into the twenties. I remembered Martin’s prediction about snow, but the sky was bright blue, and the sun’s rays pierced the dry air with ease, warming my face as I headed to the library.

  I got only as far as the San Felipe de Neri Church on the north side of the Plaza where I saw Father Groaz gazing up at the two bell towers, unlikely structures combining Spanish colonial and Victorian architecture but somehow managing to look just right in the setting.

  Father Groaz also looks like he belongs. His craggy face, barrel chest, and bushy beard give him the look of a frontiersman, but as soon as he speaks, a different image comes to mind. Transylvania. He has a deep voice and an Eastern European accent that sounds like something out of an old Hollywood movie about vampires or werewolves.

  “Gud marnik, Youbird,” he said without looking down.

  “Good morning, Father. What are you looking at?”

  “I wass just enjoying the sun while I wait for the police,” he said, “but mebbe I should be seeking help from aboff to find out who stole the paintings.”

  It took me just a moment to remember that Father Groaz had not been with Martin and me when Susannah was telling us about the stolen paintings from the Gardner Museum.

  “What paintings are those?” I asked.

  “The ones in the parish hall. And the worst thing is, Youbird, they do not belong to us. They were vary kindly loaned to us by a famous artist.”

  I knew the paintings he was referring to. The Church had been observing the tricentennial of the laying of its cornerstone in the early 1700s, and several of the events in the year-long celebration focused on Native American culture since Neri had originally been a missionary church to the local pueblos.

  Father Groas was a parish priest in Taos before coming to St. Neri. In between he was in the Jemez Valley at the home for wayward priests. The place has a more circumspect name, but I can’t remember it. He was not wayward. He was on the staff.

  I’m not Catholic, but I consider Father Groaz my spiritual advisor. He also provided assistance of a more secular nature when I was falsely accused of murder. The police thought the victim had attempted to scribble my name, but the writing turned out to be in the Cyrillic alphabet. Groas’ native tongue uses that bizarre script with its backwards ‘R’, a letter that looks like the number 3 and other oddities. He not only explained the meaning of the note the victim left, he gave me the complete history of Cyrillic to add to my already vast store of useless knowledge.

  Jaune Quick-To-See Smith had allowed the Church to display some of her artwork, and Susannah and I had attended her lecture at the opening of the show in the parish hall.

  Father Groaz took me inside the locked parish hall where I looked at the blank wall where her paintings had been. I was commiserating with the good father when Detective Whit Fletcher arrived with a pair of crime-scene techs.

  “Good morning, Father,” said Fletcher. “These boys here are Juan and Alan. They’re CSI guys like you see on television. Say hello to Father Groaz, boys.”

  The two young techs, obviously used to Fletcher’s manner, smiled and nodded at the big priest.

  “And this here,” Fletcher said, tilting his head in my direction, “is Hubert Schuze. We can rule him out as a suspect ‘cause he don’t steal paintings. He steals pots.”

  The tech guys smiled and nodded again as if Fletcher were kidding me. Fletcher and I have done a few deals over the years. He’s been helpful to me when I was mistakenly charged with murder. One thing he knows about me – in addition to the fact that I dig up old pots – is I am definitely not capable of murder. One thing I know about him is he likes to make money on the side when it doesn’t get in the way of solving a major crime. He trusts me to keep quiet about his supplemental income, and I trust him to help me out with police matters.

  Father Groaz told Fletcher he was sure the paintings were on the wall last night when he locked up after catechism class. He had gone in that morning to straighten up and discovered they were gone.

  “Who was the artist?” asked Fletcher

  “Jaune Quick-To-See Smith,” answered Groaz.

  “John Smith? Sounds more like an alias than an artist.”

  “It’s not ‘John’,” I said, “it’s ‘Jaune’. She’s a woman.”

  He took out a notebook and told me to spell it, and I said, “W-o-m-a-n.”

  The techs laughed but immediately stopped when Fletcher shot them a look. Then I spelled her name, explaining that ‘Quick-To-See’ was hyphenated and all three words in it capitalized.

  “What the hell kind of name is that?”

  “She’s Native American,” I said.

  “I never heard of any Indians around here having a name like that.”

  “She’s not from here originally. She lives over in Corrales, but she was raised on the Flathead Reservation in Montana.”

  “You know her, Hubert?”

  “No, but I know of her. She’s a very famous artist, Whit.”

  “Is that a fact,” he said. It was just an expression, not a question.

  9

  Geronimo and I took our leave to pursue my original destination, the Special Collections Branch of the Albuquerque Public Library on the corner of Central and Edith. It’s a beautiful old adobe building with organic shapes and the traditional New Mexico palette of sand-colored stucco and turquoise-painted doors and window trim.

  I started to tie Geronimo to a utility pole on the corner, but he tugged me over to a bench in the sun by the south wall. I tied the lead to the bench upon which he immediately curled up and went to sleep.

  The Special Collections Branch houses the New Mexico Collection featuring books on New Mexico history and culture, and I hoped that would include things about Lawrence. I found a lot of interesting stuff on Ernie Pyle, Dorothy Cline, Lew Wallace and other famous writers with connections to New Mexico. I scanned the books about Lawrence and decided the best two were D. H. Lawrence in Taos by Joseph Foster and D. H. Lawrence in New Mexico by Arthur J. Bachrach. According to the book jacket, Bachrach owned a bookstore in Taos named Moby Dickens.

  And I thought Cocopotamus was a cutesy name.

  I read the Foster book and checked out the Bachrach volume because it seemed worthy of more in-depth study. I went outside and stared at the building for a few minutes. Then I retrieved Geronimo and walked home.

  A roost of pigeons was scavenging candy wrappers and bits of discarded junk food around the I-25 underpass. With a diet like that, it’s no wonder pigeons are fat. They flew up on Geronimo’s approa
ch and startled him so thoroughly that he wrapped his lead around me trying to escape them.

  There were no customers queued outside my shop, so I passed by and headed up Rio Grande to BookWorks where I bought a volume containing two Lawrence novellas. At the Flying Star Café next door, I ordered their Turkey Jack, a huge sandwich of house-roasted turkey, New Mexico green chile and tomatoes on grilled sourdough. I ate half of it. I was planning on giving the other half to Geronimo who was waiting outside, but I saw him receive a half a cupcake and all of a taco from other diners as they left. So I ate the second half. I needed to carb up for the long walk back.

  I read the first of the two stories while eating lunch. St. Mawr is about a rich woman in the throes of ennui who falls in love with a large unruly mare by that name in whom she sees the unbroken primordial spirit missing in modern man, particularly her husband.

  Or something like that. To tell you the truth, reading the thing was giving me a hint of what the throes of ennui must feel like. It was almost as bad as reading Lew Wallace.

  Then I got to the part of the book where the daughter leaves her husband in England and goes with the horse to New Mexico where she buys a ranch called Las Chivas, which means ‘kids’. Not kids in the sense of the young humans I ban from my shop because too many parents let them run wild, but kids in the sense of baby goats.

  The woman hires a local to drive her up to see the ranch: “She watched the desert with its tufts of greasewood go lurching past: she saw the fallen apples on the ground in the orchards near the adobe cottages: she looked down into the deep arroyo, and at the stream they forded in the car, and at the mountains blocking up the sky ahead, all with indifference. High on the mountains was snow: lower, blue-grey livid rock: and below the livid rock the aspens were expiring their daffodil-yellow.”

  I was distracted by the fractured punctuation and eccentric use of adjectives and verbs. I don’t think ‘expire’ can be transitive, but maybe that’s why I’m a potter instead of a writer.