The Pot Thief Who Studied Georgia O'Keeffe (22 page)

60

W
hy did you send Glad to rescue me instead of coming yourself?” I asked Susannah.

“I was afraid someone might recognize my name and start asking questions. Better to send someone with no connection to anything that happened on the missile range. So I drove Glad to where you'd left the Bronco. He drove the Bronco to the range and gave them the story about being worried when you didn't come back. I drove to Black Cat to wait.”

We were, of course, safe and sound back in Dos Hermanas.

Well, safe at any rate. Whether I was sound might be questioned.

I'd gone back to retrieve my ladder. It had been easy to put in place the night before. All I had to do was stand it up and winch it down. But I couldn't reverse those two steps because half of it was now inside the range. If I stood outside the perimeter and pushed it up, it would be standing entirely inside the range on the other side of the FP2100-X. And I couldn't push it from the other end without being in the range myself.

I puzzled over the geometry for a minute or two. Then I looked around. I could have been on Mars. Not a single visible human contrivance except the Bronco and the ladder.

“What the hell,” I said out loud.

I attached the winch and dragged the ladder across the FP2100-X.

As I headed north on US 54, I imagined MPs in a bunker somewhere looking at a panel with strobing lights and ear-piercing beeps triggered by the FP2100-X.

Now I was sitting across from Susannah with a handful of chips and a headful of questions.

“So instead of Glad selling both the White Sands pot and the discarded pot surreptitiously, he was actually trying to do something nice by selling the first one and surprising me with the money because I thought the pot was still buried on the range. Then when he got robbed, he sold the discarded one to try to recoup the money he caused me to lose. Do any of your murder mysteries have plots like that?”

“No. They always make better sense.”

“That's because truth is stranger than fiction. When we gathered at Black Cat, did you already know our theory about him was wrong?”

“He'd told me what he told you. I wasn't positive. But his agreeing to go to the range and see if he could do something made me begin to trust him.”

“But you went to my computer and printed those photos just in case.”

She smiled. “Trust, but verify. Now we know Glad's story is true. So why did the guy who bought the discounted pot refuse to talk to you?”

“The first time, he claimed to be busy. My guess is he felt guilty about getting the pot so cheaply after I sort of kept it in layaway for him.”

“And the second time?”

“Well, I accused him of swindling me.”

“That probably explains why he hung up on you.”

“After making a lewd suggestion.”

“Yeah, you told me. So Haggard must have killed Wilkes. Too bad Fletcher can't find him.”

“Maybe he won't have to find him. Maybe Haggard will find Fletcher.”

“You have a plan?”

“Remember you pretended to be Stella Ramsey when you called Dotty Edwards to see if they still had the fake?”

“I figured that name would prompt her to tell me.”

“That's what gave me this idea. But instead of you pretending to be Stella Ramsey, I'm going to call the real one.”

61

C
harles Webbe came to Spirits in Clay the next morning just as I was picking up the phone to call Stella.

“You've been charged with murder in the past and now with trespassing at the missile range. If anyone had ever caught you digging, you'd have a long and varied rap sheet.”

“The FBI keeps tabs on the goings-on in the range?”

“Since 9/11, all agencies with a role in national security are supposed to cooperate and share intelligence.”

“How's that working out?”

“Working fine here in New Mexico, where we all know each other. Doesn't work at all in the District. Too much politics, too many people protecting turf.” He smiled. “On the other hand, there's not much intelligence within the Beltway, so maybe it doesn't matter if they share it. Major Owens told me you didn't leave the range with anything. That true?”

I shook my head.

“I didn't think so,” he said. “You've got a knack for stealing pots.”

“I didn't steal anything. I just did a little prospecting. It's public land. I'm part of the public.”

“What did you find?”

I retrieved the Tompiro from under the counter and set it in front of him.

“Impressive.”

“I also found most of the pieces to a second pot. And a mole fetish.”

“Which you left in the cave.”

“How'd you know?”

He lifted his arms with his palms up to take in the shop. “Nothing but pots in here. You don't sell fetishes.”

“I could have taken it anyway.”

“No. Too sappy for that. How much is this pot worth?”

“Fifty thousand, but I'm selling it for thirty.”

The reason, of course, is that's what Glad sold the fake to the Edwardses for. They didn't know it was a fake. So they thought they could buy a genuine one for thirty, and I didn't feel like trying to hold them up for another twenty. And thirty was all I had expected to get from Carl anyway.

“I won't ask why you marked it down. But shouldn't you keep it somewhere more secure than under your counter?”

“I have it here because the buyer is coming today. But first, there's going to be a media event.”

I told him about Stella and the plan.

“Mind if I attend? You might need some muscle.”

62

S
o now I have to tell you about Stella.

We met in an elevator. She said, “I'm Stella, but of course you already know that.” She said the same thing when she met Susannah—and for all I know, says it to everyone she meets.

And most of them would in fact know she is Stella because they see her every day on television. She's Channel 17's Roving Reporter.

I didn't know who she was at the time, but I came to know her intimately. Literally. She seduced me. I offered only token resistance.

She may possess great reportorial skills, but we all know why she does all the “stand-ups” for Channel 17. She is gorgeous.

Our brief affair came to a sudden end when one of her stand-ups announced that a murder victim “was someone Hubert Schuze had a longstanding grudge against. Schuze was at a party in an apartment near the victim's residence. He left the party shortly before a gunshot was heard and returned covered with blood.”

It was all a misunderstanding, of course—it always is—and she apologized. So we parted on good terms.

That may explain why she agreed to run the Tompiro story. Or maybe she would have run it just for the news value. It was about my “coming into possession” (a carefully chosen weasel phrase) of an intact Tompiro pot.

She stood in front of Spirits in Clay, the pot in one hand, a microphone in the other.

Charles Webbe stood behind the cameraman. Hard to attract a criminal with an FBI agent in plain sight.

After the camera was off, Stella handed the pot to Dotty Edwards. Donald handed me $30,000. I had specified cash. I handed $5,000 of that to Private Wills and $6,000 to Susannah Inchaustigui.

Charles watched. No one in the small crowd tried to make a money grab.

Susannah said, “I can't accept this, Hubie.”

“Sure you can. It's your twenty percent.”

“But the wager was for twenty percent of the pot you found on our first visit to the range. I had nothing to do with you finding this one.”

“You had everything to do with me being able to keep it. If you hadn't concocted that story and sent Glad, I never could have gotten out of there with the pot.”

“I could use the money for this fall's tuition, but it just doesn't feel right.”

“Okay, how about you sell me the O'Keeffe for six thousand?”

“Deal.”

The next person in my cash line was Thelma Wilkes, whom I'd called on the pretense that she might enjoy seeing Stella's stand-up.

I talked to her discreetly off to one side.

“I'm sorry, Thelma. Carl never did get that fifty thousand.”

“Yeah, I know that now.”

“How much do you need for your medical bills?”

“Somewhere around four thousand. You don't need a clerk, do you? I have some bad days when I wouldn't be able to come in, and I'm not sure how long I can stay in your building without smoking—”

“Thelma, I don't need a clerk.”

She looked down.

“Hold out your hand.”

She did so without looking up. I placed a stack of fifty hundred-dollar bills in her hand. “This is for your medical bills. Plus another thousand to enroll in a quit-smoking program or buy a lifetime supply of Nicorette.”

“Thank you. I don't like taking charity, but I need the money.”

“It's not charity. Think of it as money from Carl. He's the one who sent me looking for another Tompiro. Without him, I wouldn't have this to pass along to you.”

The search had taken a winding path, but he was the one who prompted me to take the first step.

“I feel better now about trusting you,” she said before she left.

63

J
ack Haggard probably enjoyed looking at Stella Ramsey as much as do the other men in Albuquerque.

Of course, his interest in her most recent stand-up spurred something more than lust.

I'd agreed several years ago to be a decoy. Whit furnished me a Kevlar vest for the occasion, but that didn't make standing behind my counter staring down the barrel of a gun any less stressful. We had to do it that way because I needed to extract a confession before Whit stepped out from behind my workshop door to make the arrest.

This time we didn't need a confession. And not only did I not play decoy, I wasn't even in Old Town when Haggard showed up to rob Spirits in Clay for the third time.

Which turned out not to be a charm.

The first counterman he robbed was Gladwyn Farthing.

The second was Hubert Schuze.

The third was Whit Fletcher.

Who got the drop on Haggard.

Whit didn't have to reach into his jacket for his gun. It was in his hand just out of sight below the counter.

He cuffed Haggard and took him to a motel room Haggard was renting. He collected some stolen artifacts and a good deal of cash. The artifacts were confiscated as evidence. The cash was confiscated as evidence.

Some of it.

Most of it ended up in Whit's pocket. He never told me how much. He did give me a cut, even though it was not the original money we were looking for and he could have kept it all.

The other money had paid most of my bills and I still had the shards to assemble into a collector's item. So since this was money I hadn't expected, I donated it to a fund that assists the remaining survivors of the Bataan Death March.

You may remember me mentioning a bookstore here in Old Town called Treasure House Books and Gifts. The building is owned by Jim Hoffsis, a veteran. His son, John Hoffsis, runs the store. The two of them have been participating in the Annual Memorial March for years. They invite me to join them each year. I think I'll take them up on the offer next time.

I haven't yet decided if I'll stay on the trail the entire walk.

64

I
didn't go back to Old Town after Haggard's arrest.

Sharice and I were in bed. I saw no reason to leave.

She had let Benz back in from the balcony, and he was draped over most of the end of the bed.

“A wonderful thing has happened to me,” she said.

“Yeah. It was great for me too.”

She giggled and poked me. “I just realized I no longer care that I don't have a left breast.”

“I never did care.”

“I know that. But despite all the things I did to change my life and my attitude, I did care. Not so much that it was an obsession. But it bothered me. And now it doesn't, thanks to you.”

“Just because I don't care, you don't care?”

“Not exactly.”

Shoot. I'm still clueless.

“You gave me that book you got from Ms. Po. A line in one of the poems is, ‘You only lose what you cling to.' After I found you, I stopped clinging to that breast. So it's no longer lost.”

She scooted closer to me. “Did you ever live with any of those girlfriends you told me about?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I was waiting for that special someone.”

Not exactly true, but I didn't want to spoil the moment by saying none of them were interested.

“Would that special someone be me?”

“You wouldn't ask if you didn't already know.”

She thrust up her arms and yelled, “Yes!”

Then she rolled over on top of me and kissed me.

When my heart rate returned to normal, I said, “Not that anything could dissuade me from moving in, but are you done with your one-at-a-time list?”

She shook her head. “There's one more thing on it. And it isn't nearly as dramatic as the others. In fact, it isn't about me. It's about my father. But now is not the time. There is one thing I want to ask about.”

“Which is?”

“Your relationship with Susannah.”

“We're friends, Sharice. I love that girl, but not romantically. She's like a niece, a baby sister, a friend and a partner in crime all rolled into one. But she is not and never has been a girlfriend. You are
ma petite amie
.”

I got out of bed and traipsed into the living room. Why is it that
traipsed
springs to mind when we are naked?

I traipsed back and handed her a small package.

She unwrapped
The Gospel According to Coco Chanel
. “This is great.”

“I couldn't afford one of her dresses, so I bought you a book about her instead.”

I handed her a larger package.

She tore off the paper. “A Georgia O'Keeffe knock-off. Spectacular. I'll never be able to afford a real one, and I think prints are tacky. This will look great. I know exactly where I'll hang it.”

She started to kiss me again and stopped. “Why the sneaky grin?”

“It's not a knock-off. It's a genuine O'Keeffe.”

“You can't be serious.”

“She didn't quite finish it. She never signed it. And it has a tear in it that you can hardly see now that it's framed. But it is a genuine O'Keeffe.”

“I should have known it was real. Look at that cliff. It does more than just picture a piece of geology. It reminds you how you feel when you're in those lonely wild places.”

“I guess that's what O'Keeffe meant when she said, ‘I could say things with color and shapes that I couldn't say any other way—things I had no words for.'”

“I'll treasure this painting forever.”

“Good, because you'll have to keep it. Its provenance is a bit dodgy.”

She laughed. “Judging from the stuff in the newspaper, so is yours. I guess I'll have to keep you too.”