The Pot Thief Who Studied Georgia O'Keeffe (11 page)

28

Y
ou should have agreed to talk to the collector, Hubie.”

“She wouldn't tell me who it is, so the only way I can do that is go with her.”

“So? Why not go with her and at least find out who it is? Now that Carl isn't in the deal as middleman, you can get the whole fifty thousand if you sell the pot to the collector.”

“I don't have the pot, remember? And the collector already has one. Maybe Thelma's right and Carl somehow found another Tompiro and sold it to the collector.”

“Let's give him a name.”

“Give who a name?”

“The collector. Aren't you tired of calling him that? Let's call him Reginald.”

“Why Reginald?”

“Because rich people don't have names like Hank or Pete. They have names like Thurston or Reginald.”

“Okay, but it can't be Reginald. The collector is a woman.”

“So we'll make it Regina.”

She pronounced it
reh-GEE-nah
, which is how we normally hear it in the United States. But Sharice would pronounce it
reh-JI-nah
because that's how they pronounce the name of the capital city of Saskatchewan.

I saw no reason to argue the point. “Okay. But until I have the pot in hand, there's no reason to talk to her.”

“You'll have the pot day after tomorrow.”

“I wish you'd stop saying that. You're going to
cho bun
us.”

“What's that mean?”

“It's a phrase I learned from Faye Po, the lady who bought the last Tompiro from me. It's when you start making plans for something good that you think is going to happen, but it doesn't happen because you took it for granted and started planning as if it were a done deal.”

“Well, everyone knows about that special sort of jinx, Hubie. You don't need a Chinese word for it.”

“Sure you do. There's no English word for it.”

I signaled Angie while Susannah thought about it.

After Angie brought more salsa, Susannah asked if I'd finished my copy of the Tompiro pot.

I nodded and sat there staring into my margarita and thinking. “Thelma said Faye Po is not the collector, but I wonder if there's any connection between her and Regina.”

“Wow. I hadn't even thought about that. In the Bernie Rhodenbarr murder with Rudyard Kipling, he steals a book from a collector, and the person who asks him to steal it is the person who sold it to the collector in the first place.”

When Susannah gets excited about what might be a real-life murder mystery, she often tries to pack too many thoughts into one sentence.

“Rudyard Kipling steals a book?”

“No, of course not. Bernie steals the book. He's a burglar, remember?”

“Is the collector he stole it from named Regina?” I was trying to find the connection.

“No, he was named Jesse Arkwright. He bought the only copy of
The Deliverance of Fort Bucklow
by Rudyard Kipling.”

“The other copies were by someone else?”

“How did you know there were other copies?”

“A lucky guess?”

“It seemed there was only one copy to begin with and a man named J. Rudyard Whelkin had it.”

“There were two Rudyards?”

“Three if you count the lake.”

I felt like I was losing the thread. “The lake?”

“Yeah, there's a Rudyard Lake in England. Whelkin,” she continued, “sold the book to Arkwright, who paid a lot for it because he thought it was the only copy.”

“Or at least the only copy by Kipling,” I added.

She frowned. “Who else would write a copy of the same book?”

“Who else, indeed,” I said, trying be amicable in the midst of my confusion.

“So Whelkin hires Bernie to steal the book back. And you already know why because you guessed there were other copies.”

I did?

“Right,” I said, “but remind me why there being multiple copies made Whelkin want to get the book back.”

“Because he had another buyer who was willing to pay even more than Jesse Arkwright, but only because the new buyer
also
thought it was the only copy in existence. Whelkin discovered that Arkwright was going to advertise his copy for sale. If the new buyer saw that ad, he would realize the book he was about to buy was not unique and there might be any number of them floating around.”

“Okay, but what does this have to do with the Tompiro?”

“It's obvious, Hubie. Regina has what she thought was the only Tompiro pot in existence. Then Carl offers to get her a second one. So Regina realizes her pot isn't as valuable as she thinks it is. She agrees to buy the pot from Carl. Except when Carl shows up, she kills him and destroys the other pot to make sure she still has a one of a kind.”

“You're forgetting one small detail—Carl didn't have a Tompiro.”

“He could have found another one. Maybe it was cheaper than the thirty thou you wanted for yours, so he bought that one instead.”

“There is no way he found another Tompiro.”

“You found one at White Sands on your first try.”

“Only because I was able to search in a site no one has searched because it's inside the missile range. I scoured outside of the range on the east side of the Manzano Mountains for years and only found one intact pot.”

“And it was on my family's land. You should pay me something for it.”

“You were about eight years old when I found it. I'll give you a kid's portion.”

“I'm just kidding. But Carl could have found another one.”

“It's possible. There are a few in museums. There are more with cracks, chips and holes. And there may be some other intact ones to be dug up. But the odds that Carl found one are very long.”

“So if Regina didn't kill Carl, who did?”

“Thelma,” I said, because it's easier to indulge Susannah's murder mystery interest than to talk sense to her when she slips into her Nancy Drew persona.

“Why would Thelma kill him? She told you he was a good provider even after they separated. She doesn't work, so why cut off her money supply?”

“Maybe she wanted the whole fifty thousand.”

“But she asked you to help her find it.”

“Just a clever play to throw suspicion away from herself.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You're just humoring me, aren't you?”

“Busted. I have no idea who killed Carl. Whit is investigating it. He doesn't need my help.”

“You don't know if he needs your help or not. You may have a clue he doesn't know about.”

“I don't have a clue.”

“You said it. He was your partner, Hubert, and you aren't lifting a finger to bring his killer to justice.”

“I told Whit everything I know. What else can I do?”

“Cozy up to Thelma. She might divulge something in an intimate moment.”

“There is no way … you're kidding, right?”

“Two can play at that game.”

We laughed and signaled for Angie. The timing was perfect because Sharice showed up just then to put in her order—a glass of Gruet.

I introduced Sharice and Susannah and each woman told the other the wonderful things I had said about her. When the drinks arrived, Susannah offered a toast to Sharice and me.

It was followed by an awkward silence.

29

I
can't believe you invited her to join us without telling me.”

“You don't complain when Martin or Tristan drop in on our cocktail hour unannounced.”

I had just picked Susannah up for our trip to the Inchaustigui Ranch. It's closer to the missile range. The next day promised to be long and tiring. Starting from the ranch would make it a bit easier.

“I already know them, Hubert. It's different when it's somebody new. You should have told me.”

“Why?”

“So I could prepare.”

“Oh, come on. Sharice is not the Queen of England. You don't need to practice up on your curtsy before meeting her.”

“You are so clueless. Have you ever heard the phrase ‘You only get one chance to make a first impression'?”

“Yeah, and I've always wondered why people say it as if it's some nugget of wisdom. It's nothing but a tautology. You only get to do the first
anything
once—that's what
first
means.”

“It
is
a nugget of wisdom. You just don't see that because as usual you're intellectualizing it. Labeling it as a tautology, whatever the hell that is. If you tried to understand the feeling part, you wouldn't sound so cold and clueless.”

“Sorry,” I said in my little-boy voice.

After a few seconds she exhaled audibly and said, “No, I'm the one who should apologize. I felt uncomfortable when she showed up. She's so elegant and so thin. I felt clunky.”

“I—”

“Don't say anything. I'm happy for you, Hubie. She's not only strikingly beautiful, she's intelligent and articulate. And it's obvious from the way she looks at you that she's madly in love with you. You deserve that. Your love life hasn't been as rocky as mine, but no one would call it normal.” She paused for a deep breath. “I didn't snap at you because I was unhappy with you as much as because I'm unhappy with myself. I don't know how she makes herself up and still looks so natural. I don't know how she walks without rocking like she's on a horse. I envy how she's thin without being skinny, how her long legs seem to go all the way up to her armpits. And most of all—God, this really hurts—I know I'll never be able to wear the fabulous clothes she wears because I'm too damned fat.”

“Oh for heaven's sake. You are not fat. You're—”

“Watch it, Hubert. Dragging out the wrong euphemism could be dangerous.”

I raced through the options, rejecting full-figured, buxom, statuesque and voluptuous. “Shapely,” I said.

“At least you didn't say
full-figured
. I hate that.”

Whew.

“Put little fairy wings on her,” she said, relaxing a bit, “and she could be the black Tinker Bell. Designers would love her.”

I decided not to comment.

We were on I-40 driving east through Tijeras Canyon, an apt name for the scissorlike pass between Albuquerque and the plains of eastern New Mexico.

I dislike freeways. I was looking forward to State Highway 14, where we could turn south onto a road with a view I could enjoy because the sun wouldn't be in my eyes and the semis wouldn't be on my tail.

I started laughing.

“What's so funny?”

“Women. I don't understand them.”

“Well, boo-freakin-hoo. Of course you don't understand women. You're a man.”

“I understand one thing about women.”

“Yeah? What?”

“If Carl and I had been women, I would have known all about his family. I would have known he was married. I would have known whether he had children, which I didn't even think to ask Thelma about. I would have known whether he had sisters or brothers and I would have known all their names.”

“So what did you two men talk about?”

“Work. Money. Pots.”

“That's sad.”

“It wasn't sad. We enjoyed talking to each other. But now that he's dead, I wish I had talked to him about more personal things. It just didn't occur to me. Anyway, I was going to tell you something about Sharice. After we got back to my place last night, she told me she felt intimidated in your presence. You're so curvy, and she saw the way all the guys were sneaking peeks at you.”

“See why you should have told me? Knowing that she … well, I would have worn a loose-fitting blouse or something.”

“She's not self-conscious about it, Suze. She mentioned it because she noticed the other guys, not because she's jealous. And she liked how you seemed self-assured in the bar and wished she could be like that. But she doesn't want big breasts. She knows she has that gamine look.”

“You think my boobs are too big?”

“We're friends, Suze. I don't think about you that way.”

“Give me a yes or a no.”

“No. They aren't too big. And yes, even though we're friends, I do notice them. Happy?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Can we talk about something else?”

“Yeah. How about we go swimming in the stock tank when we get to the ranch? I have this skimpy bikini I'd like you to see.” She started laughing. “That morning sun is powerful. We've only been on the road ten minutes and you're already glowing red.”

“Very funny.”

“You didn't answer me—do you want me to put on that bikini?”

“I'll bet you don't own a bikini.”

“You're right. But it's fun to see you blushing.”

We reached Highway 14. Not a minute too soon.

“Why are you turning here?” she asked. “Going through Moriarty is faster.”

“This way is more scenic.”

“And?”

I knew she had it figured out. “It takes us by some of the Tompiro sites.”

After Escabosa and Chilili, we stopped at the Quarai ruins, a place so quiet and lonely it's hard to believe it's on the same planet as Albuquerque, much less an easy commute. The suburbs will reach out here soon. We destroyed a civilization. You'd think maybe we could at least let their spirits rest in peace.

Susannah pulled a brochure from the box next to the parking area and read it. “‘The Franciscans taught the Indians the Spanish language, new agricultural methods and crafts.'”

“Crafts? Maybe like making wooden crosses during the winter, when many of the Indians froze to death for lack of firewood.”

“The Indians aren't the only people who've been mistreated. My grandfather was eighteen when he got here. A guy met him at the railhead. He took him up into the Manzanos and gave him a tarp, bedroll, beans, bacon, cast-iron pot, rifle and canteen. Then he just left him there. At least there was a dog there. He knew a hell of a lot more about shepherding than my grandfather did.”

“I thought Basques were natural shepherds.”

“That's racial profiling, Hubie.”

After we laughed, she continued her story. “He was actually a cook by profession.”

“I figured since his name was Gutxiarkaitz he'd be a sleazy politician.”

“I'm impressed that you remembered his name, but why would you figure him for a sleazy politician?”

“Because you told me Gutxiarkaitz means ‘little rock,' which is the home of Bill Clinton and Mike Huckabee.”

“Groan. Anyway, he contracted a bad case of
txamisuek jota
.”

“That's like Lyme disease, right? Except carried by sheep instead of deer.”

“Literally it means ‘struck by sagebrush,' but what it actually means is depression.”

“How did he get over it?”

“After he'd been there for several weeks, two cowboys showed up yelling at him. They were probably telling him to keep his sheep away from the land where they were grazing cattle, but he didn't speak English, so he just ignored them.”

“Probably the wise course.”

“Nope. They got his attention by trying to run him down with their ponies.”

“Obviously, he survived.”

“Yeah. He had quick reflexes because he was a champion
at
zesta-punta
.”

“
Zesta-punta
?”

“You know it as jai alai. As the first cowboy reached him, Aitona grabbed a stirrup, and in one fluid motion flung himself up to the saddle while pushing the cowboy to the ground. Then he turned the pony and lassoed the second cowboy. A few hours later, he rode into the cowboys' camp astride one horse with the second one tethered behind and the two cowboys tied across the saddle like bedrolls. The herd owner was so impressed he hired Aitona on the spot. After he learned English, he eventually became the head wrangler, and he ultimately ended up owning the acreage when the state put it up for sale.”

I already knew that
aitona
means grandfather. I also knew her father's name is Eguzki, which means
sun
in Basque, but he goes by Gus. And her mother's name is Hilargi, which means
moon
, but she goes by Hilary.

They call Susannah
Sorne
, which means
conception
in Basque.

Susannah's voice pulled me out of my musings about her family. “You ever dig anything up here?”

“Never tried. Been picked over by too many archaeologists.”

We leaned against the ancient walls, smelled the salt in the dry air and listened to the wind sing between the stacked rocks.

“Your parents know you're dating Baltazar?”

“Yeah, but they haven't met him. We aren't serious enough for that. Yet.”

“And besides,” I chided, “he never leaves La Reina.”

“He's come to see me in Albuquerque twice.”

“Must be true love,” I said, and she took a swipe at me.