The Pot Thief Who Studied Ptolemy [02] (27 page)

The eventual crowd in my shop that evening comprised Walter Masoir, Martin Seepu, Frederick Blass, Horace Arthur, Bertha Zell, Jack Wiezga, Vlade Glastoc, Whit Fletcher, two uniformed policemen, Susannah, Tristan, Father Groaz, Layton Kent, and one of his paralegals. I own four kitchen chairs, one reading chair, one stool, and two patio chairs, all of which had been pressed in to service in the front of the shop. That left six of us standing – Whit, the two uniforms, Susannah, Tristan, and me.

“I should start by saying, ‘You’re probably wondering why I called you all together’, but you probably already know why. I need to prove I didn’t murder Ognan Gerstner.” I didn’t add that the only way to do that was to prove who did.

Then I laid it all out. “A few weeks ago, Professor Walter Masoir told me he believed Ognan Gerstner had stolen a set of pots that belong to the San Roque Pueblo. I decided to try to recover those pots and return them to their rightful owner.”

Fletcher rolled his eyes and cleared his throat.

“Professor Masoir is with us tonight. He’s the distinguished looking gentleman to my far left. As you all know if you watch the news, I was at a party the night Gerstner was killed. The party was at the residence of Frederick Blass who resides in the building where Gerstner lived. Mr. Blass is the gentleman in the black windbreaker seated at the back right. I admit I left the party and broke in to Gerstner’s apartment to see if I could find the pots. But I didn’t murder him. I was looking for the pots above the suspended ceiling when I was startled by a loud noise that I now realize was a gunshot. I was so startled, in fact, that I fell and in doing so scratched my arm on one of the wires that hold up the ceiling tiles. When I returned to the party, Mr. Horace Arthur noticed the blood on my shirt. Mr. Arthur is here seated next to Mr. Blass. Incidentally, Mr. Arthur, the news reported that I was covered in blood. Is that what you told the police?”

“I told them there were a few drops on your arm. I can’t say what the press reported, but they are lackeys of the police, so nothing would surprise me.”

Given that Whit and his men were helping me, I didn’t appreciate the political commentary, but I moved on. “Gerstner was later found shot to death in his apartment. Since the shot that killed him seemed to have been fired while I was in that very apartment, the police naturally assumed I had fired it. But I knew I hadn’t fired it, and I knew Gerstner hadn’t been in his apartment when it was fired. So despite the fact the police in this city do a great job, I knew they were wrong in this case.”

“Cut the crap, Hubert, and get on with it,” said Fletcher.

“The best explanation I could come up with at first was that Gerstner had been shot in another apartment while I was in his, and then later the murderer had placed Gerstner’s body back in his own apartment. But why would the murderer move the body? I thought it was strangely coincidental that the shot was heard while I was in Gerstner’s apartment. I know there’s such a thing as bad luck, but this was almost too bad to be merely coincidence. So I tried to figure out if another explanation might be possible, and of course it is. There could have been two shots – the one everyone at the party heard and another one that actually killed Gerstner.”

“How would that work?” asked Susannah.

“Well, suppose someone had been planning to kill Gerstner and was waiting for the best situation to do so. Suppose that person saw that I was away from the party and took the opportunity to fire a shot. Then later, that person kills Gerstner and puts the body in 1101, Gerstner’s apartment, to frame me.”

I pressed on. “In my previous visit to Gerstner’s apartment, I found one of the stolen pots, but I left it there because I wanted to recover all of them, not just one. While I was there, someone entered the apartment. I hid behind the couch, so all I saw were shoes. I left without being detected, so the person who came in doesn’t know I was there. I went down to the parking garage in the basement and watched for half an hour, and no one wearing those shoes left the building.”

“The person might have left through the lobby,” said Bertha.

“True. But remember the shot we all heard was fired in the building. If the person who walked in on me in Gerstner’s apartment is the one who fired that shot, then the odds are he lives in the building. And this is not a walking city. People who live in Rio Grande Lofts generally take their cars when they leave the building.”

“This must be Hubert’s idea of a bizarre parlor game. But of course there’s not a shred of evidence other than the fantasies of his imagination. I do admit to having a collection of shoes to die for, but that hardly makes me a murderer.” He looked to the others with that winning smile.

He was smooth, all right. “Unfortunately for you, there may be some very strong evidence. The police entered your apartment with a warrant moments after you left to come here. By now they probably have your dueling pistols at the crime lab. I’m confident one of them will turn out to be the murder weapon.”

“Your confidence is unwarranted.”

“The police will also be searching for any of the missing pots.”

“Let them do so,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders. “Mr. Kent,” he said, “perhaps after this is over I can discuss with you the possibility of court action against Mr. Schuze for libel.”

“Quite impossible,” said Layton. “In the first place, Mr. Schuze is my client. Bringing an action against him would constitute a conflict. And secondly, no libel is committed when the charges are true.”

“Let’s just say you’re being detained for questioning. My men in your apartment will contact me when they’ve finished their work, and then we’ll see if anyone needs arresting.”

Blass sat back down and glared at Fletcher then at me. Even though he was a murderer, I felt guilty about proving it, and I looked away. No one said anything and the silence in the room was as thick as an adobe wall.

Then there was a knock on the door.

It was not the police. It was Miss Gladys Claiborne with a tray of desserts.

57

Fletcher looked at the door, rolled his eyes, then looked at me. “It’s the same dame was here last time, Hubert. Tell her to go away.”

I opened the door and explained it was not a social gathering.

“Well, I can see that,” she said, pushing me aside with the tray and heading for the counter. “That same nice detective is here again, but I think these young men in uniform are different ones. What are their names, detective?”

Miss Gladys proudly peeled the plastic wrap off the tray. “Detective, you look like a strong man. Would you be so kind as to slant this tray up while I explain what’s on it?”

Whit walked resignedly behind the counter and lifted the tray to a perfect angle for display.

There was strawberry pie. Miss Gladys didn’t give out recipes. I guess she didn’t think it appropriate for an official police matter, but I knew what was in it because she had made it for me before. It’s a ready-made graham cracker crust from the baking aisle, two packages of frozen strawberries, strawberry Jell-O, and a can of ReadyWhip. The names of Miss Gladys’ ingredients are frequently followed by ™. I would tell you how to put everything together, but you can probably figure it out yourself.

There were also marshmallow brownies, praline pie, and something called 7-Up cake.

The praline pie is a regular pecan pie with the Karo syrup heated until it caramelizes before the pecans are added. It is absolutely delicious, and even though I thought turning my dramatic unmasking of a killer into a dessert party was in poor taste, I did take a piece of the praline pie. Everyone grabbed something, even Frederick Blass who evidently thought he had nothing to fear. He was talking to Jack Wiezga and eating a marshmallow brownie.

Fletcher gave in and started in on a slice of 7-Up cake. “Hubert, you got any coffee?”

I retrieved my coffeemaker from under the counter, and while I was starting the process, I heard Miss Gladys ask Whit if he was married. He looked at her warily and said he was. She seemed disappointed, but recovered swiftly with an offer for him to take some dessert home to his wife. He allowed as how the 7-Up cake was the best cake he’d ever eaten. “Nice and moist,” he said, “not like my wife’s cakes, you need a glass of water handy just to swallow.”

The coffee finished brewing, but the phone rang and everyone was spared having to drink it.

I answered and passed the phone to Fletcher who listened, muttered a few yeahs and hmms and then hung up. “That was my colleague back at the station. They found one of them pots hidden in your closet, Blass, and they found blood on one of them old pistols, too. Of course we had a sample of Gerstner’s blood from the crime scene, and the blood on your pistol matched perfectly. I guess instead of hiring Mr. Kent here for a libel suit, you might want to ask him would he defend you against a murder charge.”

Blass started to say something, then thought better of it and remained silent while Fletcher read him his rights, and Miss Gladys said, “Oh, my.”

58

“Wow, Uncle Hubert. You’re going to be a hero when you return those pots to San Roque. You are going to return them, right?”

“All the originals.”

Tristan had helped me carry the chairs back where they belonged, and he was now ensconced in one of them, tilting it back on its two rear legs and drinking a bottle of beer. I’d offered him a glass for the beer, but as usual he’d declined. “That’s pretty good music, Uncle Hubert. Who is it?”

“Good point. But all their stuff has been digitally remastered. I don’t think there’d be enough market to justify that for this Hampton guy.” He was walking to the refrigerator as he talked.

“Probably not,” I agreed. “On the other hand, most people who listen to Lionel Hampton, myself included, wouldn’t know what digitally remastered means. They still think vinyl creates the highest fidelity.”

“You’re kidding me. That’s really an old 33
¹
/
₃
disc? Where’s the turntable?”

“It’s not a record. It’s satellite radio.”

“You have any salsa to go with…” He brought his head out of the fridge. “Satellite radio! The one I brought over for you? You told me you’d never use it.”