The Pot Thief Who Studied Georgia O'Keeffe (10 page)

26

Y
ou're engaged?”

“No.”

“But you just said you asked her to marry you. Don't tell me she said no.”

Having spent the night with Sharice and part of the day with Jack Haggard and the Edwardses, I had plenty of fodder for the cocktail hour.

“She didn't say no,” I answered, “and she didn't say yes.”

“She said maybe?”

I shook my head. “She didn't say anything. She just laughed. Then she pulled me into bed and … well.”

“I know—you
consummated
your relationship. Congratulations, by the way. What's it been? Three years since your first date? Call Guinness—they probably want you in their book.”

“Three years ago wasn't a date. It was just lunch. And most of the time we've been dating, I've been in one cast followed by another.”

“Equivocations and excuses. Admit it, Hubert, this courtship has been positively Victorian. I know you won't give details, but can you at least say something about it?”

“Sure. It was worth the wait.”

Her shoulders slumped. “I could tell that from the dopey smile you showed up with tonight. Can't you just share a little romantic something about it?”

“Okay. She asked me to close my eyes while I was still standing outside her front door. Then she took me by the hand and led me to the bedroom. When I opened my eyes, she was completely naked.”

She laughed. “I love it. No points for being coy, but I admire the girl's take-charge attitude. So after you did the deed, she just pretended you hadn't proposed to her?”

“She must have thought I was joking.”

“Why would she think that?”

“Maybe she thought I was using humor to express my delight. You know—she's standing there in her birthday suit about to drag me into bed, and instead of saying
Thank you
or
I'm really excited about this
, I say
Marry me
.”

“So you
were
joking?”

I sipped my margarita. “I don't know. I just blurted it out. Maybe I subconsciously wanted to propose.”

She sighed. “I'd settle for any proposal—conscious, subconscious or unconscious.”

I jumped on that to change the subject. “You want Baltazar to propose to you?”

“It'd be nice to be asked, but I don't know what I'd say. He's a fun guy and a nice person. But he seems rooted in La Reina.”

“And you don't want to live there.”

“I don't know. Willard is about the same size, but after living in Albuquerque all these years …” She paused. “Let's get back to you and Sharice. I know how much you like her. So now that you two are sleeping together and you proposed to her—”

“I didn't propose to her—it just popped out.”

“Like you said, it was a subconscious proposal. So what's next—you two going to play house?”

“I don't know. Do people shack up these days after one night of sex?”

She frowned. “No one says
shack up
anymore. And anyway, you're asking the wrong girl. I've never lived with a man. I would have moved in with Kauffman had he asked me to, but it might have been awkward, since his wife was living with him.”

“Don't beat yourself up—you didn't know he was married.”

“And I could still move in with Freddie, but only on the days when they allow conjugal visits.”

“Not your problem. He hadn't murdered anyone until you started dating him.”

“So I turned him into a murderer?”

“Of course not. Look, you've had a bad stretch, but these things even out in the long run. Maybe Baltazar's the one. If not, I'm sure Mr. Right is right around the corner.”

Her smile returned. “Of course he is—Mr. Right wouldn't be
left
around the corner.” She dipped a chip in the salsa. “So the Haggard guy, he must be a pot hunter.”

“Or a bail bondsman.”

“Or a pot hunter who keeps a bail bondsman's card just in case. You should do that, Hubie.”

“I don't need a bail bondsman. I've been digging up pots for over twenty years and never been arrested.”

“I meant for the next time you get arrested for murder.”

“Don't even joke about that.”

“And Donald and Dotty must be collectors. You know what, Hubie? I'll bet they were in it together.”

“In what together?”

“The Tompiro caper.”

“Caper?”

“That's exactly what this is. Like
The Maltese Falcon
.”

“How is it like
The Maltese Falcon
?”

“You should remember. You even quoted that line about partners. Peter Lorre offers Humphrey Bogart five thousand for the Maltese falcon, but Bogart doesn't have it. Then Sydney Greenstreet pays him ten thousand for it, but it turns out to be a fake.”

“And the similarity is?”

“Carl offered you thirty thousand for a pot, but you didn't have it. Now Haggard also wants it—he even wrote the word on that card.”

“He forgot to capitalize it.”

“Will you just pay attention? He wants the bird, so you can sell it to him just like Bogart sold it to Greenstreet. But you sell him the fake you made. So he gets a fake just like Greenstreet did.”

She looked positively triumphant.

“You said Haggard wants the bird. I think you meant the pot.”

“See? I told you these two capers are almost identical.”

“Well, they are in one sense. Bogart didn't have the falcon to begin with, and I don't have the Tompiro.”

“You'll have it in just a few days.”

27

A
cigarette in one hand. The other one rapping on my door. Her eyes peering in just above the gold-leaf letters of
SPIRITS IN CLAY
, which pegged her at about five-ten.

Tristan had installed a remotely operated lock after I'd experienced some security issues. I left the remote on the counter, walked to the door and cracked it open.

“You Hubert Schuze?”

“Yes.”

She pushed at the door. Even though my foot was wedged against it, she managed to slide it back a few inches. She was scrawny but wide-shouldered with sun-bleached hair and a wide mouth with parched lips.

“I need to talk with you.”

I pointed at the icon of a cigarette with a red line through it. “You'll have to put out the cigarette.”

She stepped away from the door. “Then we can talk out here because I am not going to waste this smoke.”

I stepped outside and the door clicked behind me.

“I want the thirty thousand dollars Carl Wilkes gave you,” she said.

I fanned away the smoke her words carried. “Who are you?”

“I'm his wife, and that money is community property.”

I remembered telling Susannah I wouldn't have cavorted with Carl's wife if he had one. In her unique style, she'd responded, “And especially if he
didn't
have one.”

So he
did
have one. Now I felt bad about not inviting her into the shop. What's a little smoke in the air compared to losing a spouse?

“I'm sorry about your loss.”

She waved it away with a brown-stained hand. “Don't be. I'm surprised someone didn't plug him years ago.” She must have seen the look on my face because she added, “We haven't lived together for years. Don't get me wrong. I liked him well enough. Even after we were separated, if one of us got the urge, the other would usually oblige. But he dealt with lots of pot thieves who carried guns, so it didn't come as much of a surprise that one of them used theirs.”

I shuddered.

“We were still legally married when he bit the dust. That thirty thousand he gave you is mine.”

“He
offered
me thirty thousand if I could get him a certain kind of pot.”

“A Tompiro,” she said.

“Right. But I didn't get it, so he didn't give me anything.”

“You're lying, but I don't blame you. I didn't expect you to just hand it over. So I'm prepared to make you an offer. If you want to be technical about it, only half that money is mine. So you give me fifteen and you can keep the other fifteen.”

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Wilkes. I don't know what Carl may have told you, but he didn't give me any money.”

“Yeah, and the collector told me she didn't give Carl fifty thousand, and I know she was lying too, because I saw a Tompiro pot there when I went to see her. I couldn't ask her to give me the money, because she'd already given it to Carl, but I was hoping she might know what Carl did with it. I'm his executor. It isn't in his bank account.”

She hung her head and shook it slowly. Then she looked back up. “You wouldn't happen to know where it is, would you? If you could lead me to the fifty thousand the collector gave him, I might let you keep even more of the money Carl gave you.”

I sighed. “Listen to me. I never got the pot. Carl never gave me the money. If the collector has a Tompiro pot, it's likely one she already had. She was probably telling you the truth that she didn't pay Carl fifty thousand—just like I'm telling you the truth that Carl didn't pay me thirty thousand.”

She lit another cigarette. “Carl wasn't much of a husband. Gone most of the time even before we separated. Had lot of secrets. But he tried to be a good provider. He said once he sold the Tompiro, he'd pay off my medical bills. I've got emphysema. I can't work. I need that money, Mr. Schuze.”

“I liked Carl, Mrs. Wilkes—”

“Call me Thelma.” She smiled and her lips cracked. She extracted some lip balm from her purse.

“Call me Hubie. I didn't get anything from him, Thelma. But even so, I'd be willing to help you out because he was my partner in a way. But I'm broke myself. I was counting on that money to pay my
own
medical bills and my mortgage and lots of other things. I wish I could help you, but right now I can't even help myself.”

She rubbed a second coat of balm on her lips and moved them around like she was silently practicing diction.

“I'm still not sure I believe you, but you seem like a nice person. Carl always spoke highly of you.”

I didn't comment.

“Maybe you could talk to the collector,” she suggested. “She didn't want to admit to me that Carl sold her that pot, but she might admit it to you.”

“Why would she do that?”

“You're a dealer. She might want to be on your good side in case there are other pots she wants.”

I shook my head. “First of all, the collector didn't get the pot from Carl. Carl didn't have a Tompiro. That's why he asked me to find one. There's no way Carl just stumbled across one in the past few days. They're very rare. I've had only one in my twenty years in the business.”

And sold it just last year, I thought to myself. To an elegant lady of a certain age named Faye Po. Then I thought about how different that sale was from most of my transactions.

Layton Kent, prominent citizen and—despite that—my attorney, had arranged the sale. The two of us had gone to Ms. Po's home, he carrying a sales contract, me carrying the pot in a shiny red gift box purchased by Mrs. Kent for the occasion.

We had tea and strange cakes. We exchanged pleasantries. We signed the papers using a Visconti pen with an eighteen-karat-gold nib and a double reservoir filling system. I thought ink reservoirs had disappeared because of all the shirts they ruined. But I suppose the reservoir in a pen that costs more than the average American makes in a year does not leak.

Now I was standing on the sidewalk haggling over pots and money with a woman I'd never before met, not even sure if she was who she claimed to be.

“The collector's name wouldn't happen to be Faye Po, would it?”

“No.”

Of course not. Those two worlds never meet.

“And don't ask me what her name is,” Thelma added, “because I won't tell you.”

I asked instead about services for Carl.

“He didn't want any service. He told me that when he thought the cancer was going to kill him. ‘How about just a simple memorial?' I asked him. He said not even that, and he made me promise.” She wiped a tear from her cheek. “I ought to give up these cigarettes. They gave me emphysema and the damn smoke gets in my eyes.” She rubbed another tear away. “He was a tough old bird. Only thing he really liked was work.”

“And pots.”

“He hated pots.”

“He did?”

“Yep. Said they'd ruined his work. Like I said, he loved work. Loved gettin' it done. He was happiest when he was part of a big job, a long canal or a big dam. The bigger the project, the more he liked it. Gave him a sense of accomplishment, I guess. When we were courting, he'd drive me to see some big concrete culvert he made. Not very romantic, but I liked that he wanted to share that stuff with me.”

“How did pots ruin his work?”

“It wasn't the pots—it was ARPA. I guess you know all about that.”

Too well, I thought.

“After ARPA became law, they had to hold up every project while a bunch of archaeologists turned over every rock to make sure there wasn't an artifact or bone that might be disturbed.”

I told her I remembered Carl telling me when he was talking about dragline and bucket operations that “every third scoop had an artifact in it.”

“Yeah. So after ARPA he decided to start selling the stuff. It was partly the money and partly just because he didn't like the guys he described as namby-pambies who worked with brushes instead of backhoes. He could be ornery.”

“Probably why he beat melanoma.”

“Didn't help him much in the end.”

Another few tears wetted her parched cheeks.

“Why do you not want to tell me the collector's name?”

“I don't want you and her to work something out behind my back.”

“What could we work out behind your back?”

“Maybe she and you together would figure out where Carl hid the fifty thousand and split it fifty-fifty. She gets half her money back, you get most of what Carl would've paid you, and I get left out in the cold. That's why I want to be there when you talk to her.”

Using my most charming tone and my most winning smile, I said, “First you say I seem like a nice person, and now you say I'd leave you out in the cold.”

She smiled again. Her lips seemed a bit more supple. I guess the balm was working. “It would have been her idea, not yours. But I'd still be out in the cold.”

“You're not a very trusting person, are you, Thelma?”

“You're married to someone like Carl who never shares information, you get a little suspicious, I guess.”

She was weathered. Wore a simple cotton dress and running shoes. No jewelry or makeup. A no-nonsense look.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “There's nothing I can do for you.”

She ground out a cigarette on the sidewalk. “I need that money,” she said. “I'll come back if I think of something else.”

I watched her walk away, her wide shoulders slumping.

I turned to the door and tried the knob. I had locked myself out. I took that as an omen and headed over to Dos Hermanas.