The Pot Thief Who Studied Escoffier (10 page)

Masoot’s Linzer tortes were sized as individual servings, the pie version of a cup-cake. I didn’t know what to call them. I don’t suppose cup-pie is a word?

When I took a bite, I knew why Kuchen was so proud of his patisserie. I always thought of crusts as simply vessels for the filling, but Masoot’s crust was the main event, a crumbly, rich, spicy, nutty mixture that made me want to learn how to bake it so I could have it with Gruet.

I thought he was going to dance when I told him how much I liked it. He swayed from side to side and seemed to be going up and down on his toes.

“It is named for my city, Linz.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Yes. It is the oldest tort in the world. Wie mann die Linzer Dortten macht dates back to 1653.”

I told him that was amazing because I figured it was easier than asking him what the devil he was talking about. I wanted to eat, not talk. Alas, the torts were small and too soon gone.

“You are leaving us?” he asked.

“Just for the weekend. I’ll be here for the grand opening on Monday.”

“You will bring the chargers?”

“I’m afraid not. They won’t be ready for a week or more.”

“Was Molinero upset by the delay?”

“No.”

“Hmm. What about Kuchen?”

“I don’t think he knows yet.”

Masoot gave me a conspiratorial smile. “Perhaps it will be better if you are not here when he hears this news.”

“Yes. He is quite the stickler for schedules.”

“And for loyalty. If I were you, I’d keep what I know to myself.”

“That’s easy,” I said. “I don’t know anything.”

“Also, be careful what you say to Voile.”

“Why?”

He looked around then lowered his voice. “I believe she is the paramour of Molinero. I saw them embrace.”

I found it hard to believe that Voile would be attracted to Molinero. But then Mure had told me Maria had a thing with Kuchen, and that turned out to be false. Unless Maria had lied about it. There was entirely too much gossip at Schnitzel.

I asked Masoot if I could borrow three things for the weekend. The first was an industrial-size pot. The second was a set of cookie sheets. The last was a plastic container with a tight fitting lid into which I transferred the barium carbonate because the container it came in must have had a leak or a loose-fitting lid that allowed evaporation. The level was lower than I remembered, and I was worried there might not be enough left for a hundred chargers. The last thing I wanted was a further delay waiting for more glazing supplies.

The Gruet Winery is on Interstate 25 on the north side of Albuquerque. They have a tasting room, but I already knew what it tasted like. Which is why I stopped there and bought a case of Blanc de Noir. Then I dropped off the prototype charger, clay, and glazing materials at Feats of Clay and headed for Old Town.

26

The tang of tomatoes and onions played against the earthy scents of masa steaming in the kitchen and piñon drifting from the kiva fireplace. A perfect margarita – silver tequila from blue agave, lime juice and triple sec – was in my hand, the glass crowned by a jagged line of coarse salt.

The lithesome Angie had delivered more chips, and Susannah was foraging. She has this theory that chips soak up the alcohol and keep you from getting drunk.

“Being away from this place for a week was almost more than I could stand,” I said with feeling.

“It wasn’t a week. It was only four days, less than that when you consider you didn’t get there on Monday until lunchtime.”

“It seemed longer. But it will all be over on Monday.” I raised my glass. “To my last day at Schnitzel.”

She clinked her glass against mine. Little did we know.

“How is Ice doing?” she asked.

“Fine,” I said, feeling guilty about not saying something about him and Voile. But for all I knew, they were just chatting about old times at Café Alsace, and I would have felt even worse had I inadvertently borne false witness against him.

Wanting to change the subject, I told her I was surprised the Grand Opening was on a Monday and wondered why it wasn’t on a Saturday, the busiest day for restaurants.

“I suspect they chose Monday because that’s the night most restaurants close. They’ll have the Santa Fe foodies all to themselves.”

“You think people will come?”

“Of course they will. It’s ‘The City Different’. A new restaurant always draws a crowd. Plus, the publicity about Barry Stiles only adds to the intrigue.”

“That’s a sad thought. I was dejected that Barry’s death had no impact. But I guess it did – it was free advertising.”

“What was he like?”

“I don’t know. We had only that one brief conversation after Kuchen humiliated him. Three days later he was dead in the back of the Bronco.”

“And you still think someone killed him and put him in your vehicle because the window was down?”

I nodded.

“That’s lame even by your standards, Hubie.”

Susannah loves mysteries almost as much as she loves romances.

“You have a better theory?” I challenged.

“A body turned up once in Bernie Rhodenbarr’s bathroom. It was someone he and Carolyn met by accident while waiting in the ticket line at a museum. I guess in New York people actually stand in line to get in a museum.”

“In Santa Fe, too.”

“Anyway, Bernie barely knew the guy – just like you and Barry – but do you think he wrote it off as coincidence? No way. He knew there had to be a connection.”

“Bernie Rhodenbarr is a fictional character, Suze.”

“I know that, but life imitates art.”

“I thought it was the other way around.”

“It is. Oscar Wilde said, ‘Art imitates life, and life imitates art’.”

“Huh?”

“Carolyn discovered the body slumped on the toilet when she went to use the bathroom. Ray Kirschmann was in the store and also wanted to use the bathroom, so she stayed in there hoping he would leave. But he kept waiting so—”

“Who’s Ray Kirschmann?”

“He’s the cop.”

“Oh, right.” I read one of those books at Susannah’s insistence, but I have to admit I didn’t commit the dramatis personae to memory.

“So he keeps hanging around, and finally Carolyn comes out and tells Bernie the toilet is overflowing. Bernie asks Kirschmann if he’ll help clean it up, and of course Ray beats it out of there.”

“I just know there’s a reason you’re telling me this.”

“Just try to follow it, O.K.? Carolyn had been stalling because she knew Bernie was going to be a suspect. The toilet malfunction was just a ruse because she didn’t want Kirschmann to find the body.”

I was waiting for the punch line but didn’t know if I’d recognize it when it came. “So?”

“So if there was no connection, she would have just said, ‘Hey, Ray, it’s a good thing you’re here because I just found a dead guy in the bathroom’.”

She smiled as if that made sense. Maybe it did. “How does this relate to Barry Stiles?”

“You’re going to be a suspect, Hubie, because Barry has a connection to you and was found in your Bronco just like the dead artist had a connection to Bernie and was found on his toilet.”

“The dead guy was an artist?”

“Sort of. He was being paid to forge Mondrians. That’s what got him killed.”

I signaled Angie for a refill. I had been sipping while Susannah outlined most of Lawrence’s Block’s plot. You should be thankful I spared you the part where Carolyn’s cat was abducted, and the woman who called about a ransom had a Nazi accent.

Susannah studied my expression. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t like stories where people who make copies get killed.”

27

I had left Tristan a message on his phone/computer/navigation device saying I’d be in the shop on Friday, so he needn’t come in.

He had left me something better – five thousand dollars hidden away in the caja fuerte in my secret compartment. He’s the only person in the world other than me who knows where it is and how to open it. If I get hit by lightning, he can find the papers he needs to sell off the merchandise and the building. Or he can go into the pot-selling business. Make that ‘pottery-selling’ business.

If we both get zapped by the same bolt, I guess the papers will stay in the wall until some jackass anthropologist discovers them. He’ll probably decide they aren’t worth studying and return them to some dig site being filled in to protect it from treasure hunters.

The five thousand was in cash, the proceeds from a Laguna jug I guessed was made in the early 19
^th
Century. I was confident of the date. I was less confident about the pueblo. Laguna pottery from that era is so similar to the work from Acoma that it’s almost impossible to be certain unless you know the pot’s provenance. I didn’t in this case. I had bought it at a garage sale for a hundred dollars.

The pottery business can be profitable at times.

It felt good to be back behind my counter. Tonight would be the first Friday in December, the night of the annual Holiday Stroll in Old Town, billed by the merchants association as Albuquerque’s Biggest Christmas Party. There would be dancers and musicians. The Albuquerque Fire Department Color Guard would be there to raise the flag and play the National Anthem. Of course the politicians would be out, almost certainly the mayor and local members of the State Legislature. Probably some officials from the tribal councils at Isleta and Sandia. Maybe even one of our Senators.

Susannah agreed to adjust our cocktail hour to coincide with the speeches by the politicians.

But we would be out in time to watch the lighting of the giant Christmas tree at Plaza Don Luis and to see Santa Claus parade around the Plaza.

Then we’d both go to work. Susannah had agreed to work the late evening shift because the restaurant expected a big crowd and she expected big tips.

I wanted to stay open myself because for most Old Town merchants, this is the biggest day of the year. I never know how my shop, Spirits in Clay, will do. With the cheapest piece at a thousand dollars, no one buys stocking stuffers from me.

But I have had Holiday Stroll nights when as many as three discriminating shoppers have purchased genuine traditional Indian pottery for someone on Santa’s ‘nice’ list. Or, in some cases, maybe someone who has been delightfully naughty.

When the crowd grew less rowdy around six, I knew the speeches were about to begin, so I hustled over to Dos Hermanas where our table was waiting.

We got angry looks from a few of the people in line when Angie showed us to our table. Others in the line seemed to be studying us to determine if we were celebrities.

“The luminarias are so beautiful, Hubie.”

“I know. It always puts me in the Christmas spirit.”

“Who’s on your list this year?”

Our margaritas arrived without us placing an order, probably reinforcing the opinion of those in line who thought we were big shots.

“The usual suspects – Tristan, Martin, Consuela and Emilio, Miss Gladys, Father Groas, and a young lady from Willard.” Although it is the closest town to her family home, Susannah isn’t actually from Willard. She grew up on a ranch twelve miles south/southwest of that sleepy village, but I like saying she’s from Willard because we both think it’s a funny name.

“Didn’t you leave someone out?”

I thought about it briefly. “Angie?”

“I meant Dolly.”

“Oops.”

“You do remember her, right?”

“The list has been the same for the last several years. I didn’t know Dolly last Christmas.”

“So what will you get her? An engagement ring?” she joked.

“Maybe.”

She almost dropped her drink. “Are you serious?”

“Maybe. At least I’ve been thinking about it. And about the future.”

Mainly I had been thinking about the future of Consuela Sanchez who, as Consuela Saenz, had arrived at the Schuze household shortly after the stork. Consuela was my nanny, older sister, and second mother. She left to marry Emilio Sanchez when I left for college. Kidney disease was threatening her life, but she never dwelled on it.

“I’ve been thinking about Consuela. About how she never worries about her own health. She worries that Ninfa won’t give her a grandchild. She worries that she isn’t able to take care of Emilio. She has a family to care about.”

“Wow. This doesn’t sound like you.”

“I know. Happy-go-lucky bachelor and all that. But the big five-oh is approaching, and my biological clock is ticking.”

“Men don’t have biological clocks, Hubert. Guys can father a child at almost any age. All you have to do is to meet the right woman and not be afraid to pop the question when you do.”

She regarded me for a few seconds as if I were an object of study. “I know why you forgot to add Dolly to your Christmas list. You were subconsciously thinking about your date with Maria Salazar.”

“It wasn’t a date,” I said. “It was just lunch.”

She laughed a knowing laugh. “That’s what you think.”

“That’s also what Maria thought,” I countered. “When they brought the check, she insisted we split it because it was just two colleagues having lunch together.”

“You really are clueless. It may suit her purposes to let you think it wasn’t a date, but she came on to you, right?”

“It seemed like it, but maybe that was just wishful thinking.”

“Or the male ego at work.”

I admitted the possibility. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’m dating Dolly.”

“But you’ve dated two women at the same time.”

“Never.”

“What about Dolly and Izuanita?”

“I never dated Izuanita.”

“Right. You just had lunch with her. If Ice kept having lunch with other girls, I’d consider that dating.”

What about standing real close to them in a very friendly discussion? I thought to myself.

“Has he been having lunch with other girls?” I asked.

“I have no idea. It was just an example. We aren’t exclusive or anything.”

“Then you’re not upset with me for suggesting he move from La Placita to Schnitzel?”

“Not at all. In fact, you did us both a favor. Romances between restaurant staff are notoriously stormy. Now that he’s working somewhere else, we won’t have that problem.”