The Pot Thief Who Studied Escoffier (12 page)

When we got back, I rubbed the chicken with corn oil. I cooked up a simple sauce of honey, smoked paprika, fresh ginger and lime juice (newly squeezed – never cook with liquids in which a chicken has been marinating).

While the chicken roasted, I read some more of Escoffier’s Memories of My Life. I can’t say it was exciting reading, but some of it was interesting. For example, he was short like me and wore platform shoes so that he could work more easily on the burners of the stoves. He began restaurant work when he was only thirteen, starting as an assistant to the saucier but was taught all aspects of restaurant operations. When he was nineteen, the owner of Le Petit Moulin Rouge, one of the finest restaurants in Paris according to the book, was dining where Escoffier worked. Evidently a man who knew talent when he saw it, he hired Escoffier on the spot as his sous-chef.

When I was nineteen, I was a sophomore in college and had never worked a day in my life. The only thing I could cook was popcorn. Escoffier at that age had worked for six years and was second in command at a major Parisian restaurant. He eventually became director of kitchens at such world-famous hotels as the Grand Hotel at Monte Carlo and the Savoy and Carlton in London. I became a pot thief. Perhaps a hard early life does stiffen the character.

Every few pages, I would take a break and baste the chicken with the sauce. The evening progressed in this fashion – read, sip, baste, read, sip, baste. Did I mention I was enjoying some well-chilled Gruet? When the chicken was so tender that the wings were about to take flight sans the body, I put the roasting pan on the counter and tented it with parchment.

The aroma had Geronimo howling. After the chicken had cooled enough to handle, I took the meat off the back, legs, and wings and gave it to him. He stared at the plump breasts as if comparing our portions.

“This is mine,” I told him. He slinked away.

If Dolly had joined me for dinner, I would have prepared a side or two, perhaps a salad as well. But as it was just us guys, we both ate a politically incorrect all-meat supper. I finished the bottle of Gruet and had enough judgment left to ignore the little voice urging me to open a second one.

30

Which was a good idea because I needed my wits about me Sunday morning when Whit Fletcher and Danny Duran showed up at my door looking like the before and after pictures for a fitness center, Duran’s muscles bulging under a leather jacket, Fletcher’s paunch draped with his trademark shiny one-size-too-large silver suit.

Detective First Grade Whit Fletcher of the Albuquerque Police Department is a friend or nemesis. Maybe both. He has no interest in enforcing the Archaeological Resources Protection Act, reasoning that if there’s money to be made by selling old pots and no one gets hurt, what’s the problem? That’s also his view about cops making a little something on the side. He would never take a bribe, but if there’s money no one is going to miss, it generally winds up in his pocket.

I’ve expedited his little bonuses by doing things like selling a pot after it was used as evidence in a trial and no one claimed ownership. Like a pot in the ground, he figures one in the evidence locker serves its best and highest use by being converted to cash.

He in turn has helped me out of a few scrapes with the police, although I can’t give him full credit because he got me into some of them in the first place.

None of my mental pigeon-holes would accept Fletcher and Duran together at my front door, so I just stared at them uncomprehendingly.

Whit said, “Good morning, Hubert.”

My head swung left and right as I kept looking at them in turn thinking one of them would turn out to be an apparition.

“Be better if you invited us in,” said Whit. “You wouldn’t want that dame two doors down eavesdropping on our conversation.”

“Miss Gladys is too much a lady to eavesdrop,” I said as I stepped out of the door and allowed them to enter.

“You got any coffee?” Whit asked.

I shook my head.

“Seeing as how you’re not fully awake, why don’t I get us some?”

I thought that was a good idea. Maybe I could get my brain in gear while he was going for the coffee. But he walked back to the kitchen and hit the brew button on my coffeemaker.

Whit plopped down in my papasan chair, and I took one of the harder kitchen ones. Duran remained standing.

“Detective Duran called me to say he was thinking about hauling you in for more questioning. The coroner suspects Barry Stiles didn’t die of natural causes. We had a long talk, and I convinced Danny to come down on a day off and let the three of us see if we can’t handle this thing sort of unofficial for now.”

Duran took out his notebook. He unwrapped a piece of gum and stuck it in his mouth. “I want a rundown of your whereabouts on Sunday night and Monday of last week, starting with when you woke up and ending with when you went to sleep.”

Ah. So Susannah was right when she said I’d be a suspect in the murder of Barry Stiles, although I thought I remembered her reasoning was all based on Bernie Rhodenbarr. Maybe Duran read those books, too.

After taking a few seconds to organize my thoughts, I said, “I spent Sunday night here.”

“Can anyone verify that?”

“Yes. I had a guest that evening.”

“Would that be your Mexican girlfriend with the big hooters?” asked Whit.

I ignored him. Duran shook his head slightly.

“And the next morning?” Duran prodded.

“I left shortly after ten and drove to Schnitzel. I got there about eleven thirty. They called everyone to lunch around noon. I went to the dining area and learned the lunch was Schokogugelhupf, so I didn’t stay.”

“Where did you go?”

“Wait a minute,” said Whit. “What was lunch?”

“Schokogugelhupf.”

“That’s what I thought you said. What the hell is showgogugelhump?”

“Some kind of cake.”

“Why don’t they just say so?”

I shrugged.

Duran repeated his question. “Where did you go?”

“I went back to my work area. They were letting me do my work in the private dining room.”

“You didn’t leave the building?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“After lunch, Alain Billot came to talk to me. Then I went to dinner. It was fried carp, so I skipped that, too.”

Fletcher said, “Ain’t healthy skipping meals, Hubert.”

“Oh, I forgot. Billot brought me a croque monsieur.”

“Is that French for a dead guy?” asked Whit.

“A croque monsieur is a sandwich.”

“Then why don’t they just call it that?”

Duran looked impatient. “What happened after that?”

“I drove to the hotel with Jürgen Dorfmeister, and we spent the rest of the evening in the bar downstairs.”

“When was the last time you saw Barry Stiles?”

“I can’t say for sure. He was at the restaurant on Monday. I saw everybody at some point. They move around a lot.”

“Can the others verify that you never left the restaurant from the time you arrived until you left with Dorfmeister?”

“I think so.”

“You think so?”

“I didn’t have a constant escort. But the door to my area is open and people are walking by all the time. It’s unlikely I could leave the building without being seen.”

The coffee was ready. I let Whit pour it because I was shaking too much to try it. I sat on my hands so it wouldn’t show.

“When did Dorfmeister leave?”

“Around midnight.”

“Where did he go?”

I knew he would get to this part, so I had tried to think in advance what I would say. “I don’t know. He asked for the keys to my Bronco. I told him he was too drunk to drive, but he said he was going to sleep in it.”

“Did he?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t go down to see.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this on Tuesday?”

“You didn’t ask.”

Duran worked the gum. Chomp. Chomp.

“Besides,” I added, ”I didn’t think it was relevant.”

“I’ll be the judge of that. What happened next?”

“I told you. I went to the parking garage the next morning and found Barry Stiles dead in the back of my truck.”

“Oh, come on, Detective,” said Whit, “Tell him what you told me. Hubert here will play straight with you. I can vouch for that.”

Duran rolled his eyes ever so slightly. “I think the reason you didn’t tell me is—”

At this point I was sure the next words out of his mouth would be, “because you killed Barry Stiles.”

But they were, “because you were trying to protect Jürgen Dorfmeister.”

“No,” I said. “That never even occurred to me.”

“Come on Schuze. If you’re really going to play it straight with me like Detective Fletcher says, tell me what the first thought was that crossed your mind when you saw that body in your truck.”

“I thought Jürgen had lost eighty pounds.”

“What!” Duran looked at Fletcher. “This is the guy you say will play it straight with me?”

“I was groggy,” I pleaded. “You wanted my first thought. That was it. I realized in just a couple of seconds that it was ridiculous, but that was my first thought.”

Fletcher started laughing. “You don’t think he would make that up, do you?”

“Nobody thinks like that,” said Duran.

“Nobody normal. But Hubert here don’t think like you and me. He once told me he could prove he hadn’t been at a murder site because he was somewhere else alone.”

That wasn’t exactly right, but it was close, and I didn’t want to argue because Whit was trying to help even though he was making me out to be an idiot in the process.

Evidently, Duran wasn’t buying my story. “I questioned everyone at the restaurant. Seems they don’t get along too well. Dorfmeister is one of two people we know had access to where the body was found. The other one is you. You’re not part of the restaurant crowd, and so far everyone backs up your story that you and Stiles barely knew each other. So Dorfmeister is our best bet. You two spent a night together at the bar. Two guys at a bar for hours drinking, they tell each other things. He told you something, maybe that he and Stiles had a run-in. When Stiles showed up dead, you were afraid Dorfmeister did it, and that’s why you didn’t mention him when I first questioned you.”

“No. I didn’t suspect Jürgen or anyone else because there was nothing to suspect anyone of. I didn’t even know Barry had been murdered until you mentioned it this morning,” I said, looking at Whit. “And on top of that,” I added, “Jürgen never mentioned Barry that night.”

Duran jumped on that. “When did he mention him?”

“Tuesday night. We were at the bar again and he proposed a toast – ‘To the memory of Mr. Barry Stiles, garde manger extraordinaire’.”

“What the hell does ‘guard man-jay extraordinary’ mean?” asked Whit.

“Think about it, Schuze,” said Duran. “Try to remember something else Dorfmeister may have said about Stiles. You and I will be talking again.”

Chomp.

31

I took Geronimo for a long walk after Fletcher and Duran left. He seemed to sense I was worried because instead of sniffing everything along the way, he kept looking back at me as if checking on my mood.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that Duran had threatened me. If I didn’t come up with something to implicate Jürgen, Danny boy was going to elevate me to chief suspect. It crossed my mind that he wanted me to fabricate something if nothing was there. I put that thought aside.

I called Susannah because I needed to talk to someone. When she heard the subject, she said it was too important to deal with over the phone.

Dos Hermanas was closed, so we agreed she would come to my place. I made the simple version of guacamole – smash the avocados with a fork and add salsa. I put two beer glasses in the freezer because it was too early for margaritas.

When she arrived, I told her about my conversation with Fletcher and Duran.

Just as I finished, Martin showed up. I had only two glasses in the freezer, but that didn’t matter. He likes his Tecate straight from the can.

We sat at my kitchen table, warmed by the strong New Mexico sun that had the room around eighty even though it was in the forties outside.

Susannah brought Martin up to date. She grabbed a large chip and used it like a professor might use an eraser, jabbing it in my direction to make a point. “Here’s how I think it went down. Dorfmeister and Stiles were lovers. When Jürgen found himself alone in the Bronco, he called Stiles. They had a lover’s quarrel, and Jürgen killed him.”

“That’s ridiculous. Jürgen isn’t gay.”

“You didn’t think Chris was gay either until he kissed you.”

Martin started laughing. “I miss something?”

“Susannah asked me to help a former boyfriend with his English, and during one of the lessons, he kissed me.”

“On the mouth?”

“Can we get back to Dorfmeister, please?”

“O.K.,” she said. “He went out of his way to make your acquaintance and invited himself to your bar twice.”

“I’ll concede he might be gay, although I still doubt it. But how did he kill Stiles? There was no blood.”

“He choked him to death.”

“I saw his neck. There were no bruises.”

“He smothered him.”

I shook my head. “Jürgen is an out of shape guy in his fifties. Barry was a lean fit guy about your age. There is no way that could happen.”

“He injected him with poison.”

“Right. He found himself in the back of my Bronco and arranged an impromptu tryst in a parking garage when the temperature was below freezing. Then when he and Barry had a lover’s spat, Jürgen just happened to have a hypodermic needle and some poison.”

“It may sound ridiculous, Hubert, but you already said Duran believes Dorfmeister did it. And it’s a lot more likely than your theory that the murderer just happened to throw his victim in your truck because the window was down.”

“Hearing about restaurants and parking garages makes me appreciate the reservation,” said Martin. He opened the door and let Geronimo in. Susannah rubbed him behind the ears. Geronimo, that is.

I said, “Raoul Deschutes thinks Kuchen may have killed Barry.”

She finally stuck the pointer chip in the dip and ate it. “Why?”