The Pot Thief Who Studied D. H. Lawrence Read online

  “Humph. Are you also going to deny that you were flirting with Betty Shanile?”

  “I thought it was the other way around,” said Maria, who had just walked up to our table with a carafe of steaming coffee. “Can I pour you some coffee?”

  “I’m not thirsty,” said Glain, and she got up and walked away.

  “Thanks for rescuing me,” I said.

  Maria smiled and started making the rounds of the other tables where everyone had gathered except for Betty, Charles Winant the fundamentalist anti-gambling boor, Agatha Cruz the disheveled older lady, and Fred Rich, the fast food guy whom I had located as a food hawker in New Orleans.

  Susannah and Srinivasa Patel asked me if I needed help setting up my presentation. I said I did, and we picked out the west wall for a screen and arranged some chairs facing it at a comfortable distance. We dragged one of the tables into position and placed the laptop and projector on it. Srini plugged in the equipment and brought up the slide show for me. The first slide was on the wall but looked slightly fuzzy, so Susannah adjusted the focus on the projector. I looked at the introductory slide and suddenly became nervous.

  I went to my room and brought out the Anasazi pot, placed it on the table next to the projector, and draped a tablecloth over it. I was hoping to auction it off, but that seemed somehow less plausible now than it had when Susannah had first suggested it. It also seemed less important in light of the Duran pot sitting in the Bronco.

  I sat down behind the table and tried to relax. I thought about taking the table cloth off the pot and draping it over myself.

  24

  The group drifted over shortly after ten. Everyone was present except for the four who had missed breakfast: Betty Shanile, Charles Winant, Agatha Cruz, and Fred Rich. All the others took seats except the two staffers, Don Canon who remained standing behind the last row of chairs and Adele the Serving Wench who went off to do her chores. Maria asked if she could see the presentation, and I told her she could and was glad she wanted to. Charles Winant came in saying he had overslept, and then Betty made her first appearance of the day just as I picked up the device that controls the projector, and she took a seat in the front next to Carl Wron.

  I took a deep breath and started talking about how the Native Americans made pots before the arrival of the Europeans. I talked a little about clays and firings, and a little more about pigments, glazes, and slips, but mostly I talked about designs. I showed a variety of pots from four different pueblos – Zia, Acoma, Santo Domingo, and Picuris. Many of the other pueblos have made great pottery, but I wanted to keep it simple and brief.

  I then talked about a process known as burnishing, a method of polishing a pot by rubbing it with a smooth bone. I noted that Native Americans were using this technique centuries before Europeans arrived, and I explained that the burnishing process filled the small pores in dried clay with particles and therefore made the pots less permeable so that they held liquids better. But burnishing also has an aesthetic affect because it orients all the particles in one direction and creates a sort of mirrored surface. I showed several slides of burnished pots and pot fragments found in New Mexico and dating back to the time of Christ.

  Then I reminded them that Christ lived under the Roman Empire, and I showed them some pictures of Roman pots that had been burnished in exactly the same manner as the pots in New Mexico. The effect was as dramatic as I had hoped and led me into my closing observation.

  “The widespread view today,” I began, “is that Europeans started colonizing the world about five-hundred years ago and subjected almost all the world’s indigenous peoples to evils ranging from forced religious conversion, to destruction of their languages, to outright genocide. That view is mostly correct, but it is rarely seen in the wider context. So think about this. The most proficient colonizer in human history was the United Kingdom. At one time, they controlled almost all of North America, Australia, New Zealand, most of the Indian subcontinent, a good deal of Africa, most of the Middle East, and various islands in every ocean. It was true that the sun never set on the British Empire. Yet in 1066, the British Isles themselves were invaded and conquered, and the way of life of the then indigenous people forcibly changed forever. At about the same time here in New Mexico, the Anasazi were building cliff dwellings. Why? To protect themselves from raiding nomadic tribes who would kill some of them and take others of them slaves. My point is that the history of the human race is the history of thousands of tribes over thousands of years fighting, conquering, and mistreating those who are from a different tribe.”

  I finished by saying, “Winston Churchill once said, ‘History will be kind to us. We know this, for we shall write it.’ History is written by the victors. But where is the historian who will recognize that we are all the victors and we are all the vanquished, and which group we belong to depends on the time and place you happen to be talking about? I think we need to end this destructive cycle, and perhaps the first step is to start emphasizing the many things we all have in common as human beings and start de-emphasizing the few differences that lead to strife. Well, let me take off my orator’s hat and go back to being a potter, which is probably more in keeping with my character, and let me show you a thing of beauty.”

  I lifted the tablecloth off the pot with a flourish, and there was a blood curdling scream.

  25

  The first thing that crossed my mind was that someone was horrified by the sight of the pot.

  Which just goes to show that your first thoughts are not always your most rational ones.

  The scream had come from down the east hallway, and we all rushed in its direction. The door to one of the guest rooms was open, and through it I could see Adele with her hands curled up against her mouth, staring into the bathroom. As we crowded around her and looked in, I saw Fred Rich’s naked body floating in the bathtub. An electrical cord stretched from an outlet above the lavatory over the edge of the tub, into the water, and under Rich’s body.

  Because the table I was standing by during my presentation was nearer to the east hall than were the chairs, I got to Rich’s room quickly despite my sore thighs. Only Don Canon beat me there, and he was younger and probably didn’t have sore legs.

  He turned to the others coming in and said – rather idiotically, I thought – “is anyone here a doctor?”

  “I’m a doctor,” said Benthrop, another example of your first thoughts not being your best.

  Everyone stared at him.

  “I suppose you want a medical doctor,” he said lamely.

  Charles Winant elbowed his way past Canon, Adele and me and, looking down into the tub, announced, “The Lord has taken Fred Rich.”

  For some reason, the thought that came first to my mind was that Fred Rich wouldn’t be flipping any more burgers. At least I had the good sense not to voice that thought.

  Others started to creep forward, but Carl Wron said, “You ladies may not want to see this,” and tried to shoo them out.

  Susannah, never squeamish about such things, came forward with Srini and peeked in. Srini kept repeating, “Oh, my, oh, my.”

  Maria Salazar and Betty Shanile heeded Carl Wron’s suggestion and went back to the main room. Benthrop had already left, perhaps embarrassed by his remark about being a doctor. Adele seemed almost catatonic. Canon took her by the arm and led her away. Carla Glain looked in at Rich’s body, showed no reaction, and left.

  Howard Glover unplugged the electric cord and reached down into the water to feel for a pulse. He looked up at us and shook his head. “We should get him out of here,” he said.

  “I don’t think so,” said Teodoro Vasquez, the lobbyist. “I think we should wait for the authorities and not disturb anything.”

  Robert Saunders joined the crowd at the door to the bathroom and said, “The authorities might be days getting in here. We can’t leave a dead body floating in a tub. It’s not hygienic.”

  “You got a point,” said Glover.

  “We coul
d call the authorities. They could be here in hours,” said Vasquez.

  “Call them how?” asked Saunders. “The land lines are down and we’re out of cell phone range.”

  We all looked at each other, but no one had anything to say. It had been obvious all morning that we were stranded by the blizzard, but no one had talked about it. Now that we had a corpse in our midst, we needed to assess our situation.

  Saunders must have been having the same thoughts. He said in his judicial voice, “Let’s all go back to the main room and discuss this.”

  “What about the body?” asked Glover.

  “It won’t hurt to leave it for an hour until we decide what we need to do.”

  No one moved for a moment. Then Glover shrugged and walked out and everyone followed. I was the last one out, and I peeked into Rich’s toiletry bag beside the lavatory as I left.

  26

  Robert Saunders said in an authoritative voice, “May I have everyone’s attention please. As you know, Mr. Rich is dead. The normal course of action would be to call the police who would then handle calling the coroner if necessary, arranging to have the body removed, and notifying the next of kin. Unfortunately, that option is not available to us. The phone lines are down, and we’re out of range of any cell phone towers. Mr. Canon, is there by any chance some other sort of communication option for emergency purposes? Do you have a radio phone, a satellite phone, or anything of that nature?”

  Canon shook his head.

  “Then I think the first order of business is to get somebody down the mountain to contact the police. How far is it to the main road?”

  Canon said, “I don’t know exactly.”

  “It’s three miles,” I said.

  “How do you know that?” asked Saunders.

  “Because I was the last one to come up here last night and the road was covered with snow. I had to walk in front of my vehicle while Susannah drove because I didn’t know if there were culverts, wash-outs, or other hazards. I checked the odometer when I got out to start walking and when we arrived. It was exactly three miles.”

  “Someone will need to walk back to the road with a cell phone and call the police.”

  “I’m not sure that’s possible,” I said. “I’m also not sure it’s advisable.”

  “Surely someone can walk three miles even in the snow,” offered Teodoro Vasquez.

  “I’ll go,” Glover volunteered.

  Everyone was anxious to accept his offer and there were expressions of thanks and good luck being offered when I cut in.

  “Suppose he’s not back in seven or eight hours,” I posed. “What are we going to do then?”

  “I’ll be back long before that,” said Glover.

  “I’m sure you think so. But suppose you aren’t. Do we send a search party to find you? It will be dark by then. Then what if they don’t come back?”

  “Good heavens, Hubie,” said Betty, “this isn’t some B-grade horror movie. Mr. Glover is a big strong man. I’m sure he can walk three miles through the snow.”

  “What harm can it do just to run a test?” I asked.

  “Better safe than sorry,” added Srini.

  Glover stood up and said he didn’t mind doing a test just to satisfy some of us, and he went to his room and returned in coat, hat, and boots.

  “I’ll go a hundred yards and back, and you time it,” he said, looking at me with what I thought was an expression of disdain.

  “How will you know when you’ve gone a hundred yards?”

  “I spent most of my life on football fields. I know how long a hundred yards is.”

  Susannah said, “I don’t remember any running back from New Mexico State ever going a hundred yards.”

  Glover glared at her. He opened the front door and there was a collective gasp. The snow was all the way to the top of the doorway. He looked back at us, then turned to the snow, put his head down, and plowed into it. After he had gone a few steps, snow tumbled down into the space he had created, and we could see that the snow around the door was a drift. He pushed most of it aside. The depth of the snow away from the building was about four feet. Glover waved then started off.

  He returned eight minutes later. After he removed his outdoor gear, I noted to the group that since it took him eight minutes to cover 200 yards, that meant it would take approximately four hours to get to the road and back.

  Glain, speaking in a rapid monotone, said, “A mile is 1760 yards. Divide that by the 200 yards he traveled and you get 8.8. Multiply that by the eight minutes it took him, and you get 70.4 minutes. So it would take him one hour, ten minutes, and 24 seconds for each mile.”

  There was a moment of complete silence while everyone gaped at her.

  Susannah asked, “How did you do that?”

  Glain replied, “Some women can do math, Missy,” and Susannah shot back, “And most can do manners.”

  Saunders held up a hand and said, “Let’s not squabble. If Ms. Glain is correct—”

  “I am correct,” said Glain.

  Saunders continued, “That means it would take him three and a half hours to reach the road.”

  Glover was wearing a grim expression. “Longer,” he said. “I couldn’t keep up that pace for long. I suspect it would be closer to five hours.”

  “So let’s say it took five hours,” said Saunders. “It’s already noon. If he got down there and couldn’t make contact, it would take him another five to come back—”

  “Longer,” said Glover, “I’d be coming up hill.”

  “Why do you think he might not make contact?” Vasquez asked Saunders.

  “Because we don’t know where the nearest cell phone towers are. If the nearest tower is in Taos, you might have to go down the main road towards town before getting in range.”

  Betty asked how far that would be.

  No one knew. Then Srini hesitantly said he knew a little about cell phone technology.

  “So how close do we have to be to a tower to get reception?” Saunders asked him.

  “It’s not a matter of how close. Cell phone signals are line of sight. On flat terrain, you might reach thirty miles, but in these mountains, who knows?”

  “So if the nearest tower is in Taos, someone would have to walk far enough to be within sight of it?”

  “Exactly.”

  “That ain’t gonna happen until the road is plowed,” said Glover.

  “Surely the main highway has been plowed by now,” said Benthrop.

  “I doubt it,” said Wron. “It’s still snowing. They usually wait until it stops.”

  “But they can’t just leave us up here!” said Benthrop, his voice rising.

  “I’m not worried,” said Winant. “I leave everything to the Lord.”

  “I hope he does take-out,” said Glain. “I’m starving.”

  “Blasphemer!” shouted Winant.

  Saunders said that Glain had a point, and he asked Maria about the food supply. She said there was still a small amount of the cheese and crackers she had brought, and she had checked the cupboards and found corn oil, flour, salt, pepper, mustard, ketchup, sugar, tea, and coffee. The refrigerator had butter, pickles, mayonnaise, and two quarts of coffee creamer, and the freezer was empty except for half an elk carcass.

  “We’ll starve to death!” cried Benthrop.

  “The Lord will provide,” countered Winant. I sensed the bindings on their new friendship were unraveling.

  “We better get that elk out and start carving it,” said Wron. He nodded to Glover and the two of them headed towards the kitchen.

  “Wait just a minute,” said Saunders, and he turned to me. “Mr. Schuze, when you said you weren’t sure it would be possible for someone to walk to the road, you also added you didn’t think it was advisable. Why did you say that?”

  It was time for me to say it. “Because Fred Rich was murdered.”

  27

  I now had their undivided attention.

  “That’s utter nonsense,”
said Winant. “The man killed himself, a mortal sin that he will pay for throughout eternity.”

  “Why do you say that?” asked Glover.

  “Because our lives are not our own. Only God can—”

  “I’m not interested in your preaching, Winant. I want to know why you think Rich killed himself.” His tone caused Winant to recoil.

  “He dropped his electric shaver in the water to electrocute himself. I saw you unplug it before you reached in the water to check his pulse.”

  Glover nodded. “I thought you might say that. I pulled the plug because I didn’t know what it was attached to, and I don’t take unnecessary chances. When I lifted his arm, I saw it was the shaver, and I wondered what it was doing in there, but I knew it didn’t electrocute him.”

  “Why couldn’t an electric shaver electrocute him?” asked Betty.

  “Because it runs on twelve volts, not enough to electrocute a bug.”

  “But the cord was plugged into a socket.”

  “Yes, but the box on the plug is a transformer that lowers the voltage. The wire to the shaver is only twelve volts.”

  “But maybe he didn’t know that. I certainly didn’t, and evidently Winant didn’t know that either.”

  Glover furrowed his brow. “You saying he threw the shaver in the tub trying to electrocute himself?”

  “It could happen.”

  “I suppose it could. But it still wouldn’t kill him, so how did he die?”

  All eyes turned to me. I said I didn’t know how he died, and Benthrop asked me in his best indignant tone why I had said Rich was murdered if I didn’t know how he had died.

  “Glover wondered why the shaver was in the tub. I did too. There’s only one good explanation I can think of. I think the murderer, like Betty and Charles, didn’t know the shaver was only twelve volts, and he threw it in after he killed Rich in order to make it look like a suicide.”

  “That’s it?” said Benthrop. “That’s your logic? No wonder you gave us that lame rationalization for European hegemony this morning. Your brain must be fried from breathing too many glazing fumes.”