The Pot Thief Who Studied Escoffier (18 page)

Maybe you have an inkling of the means if you’ve been paying attention, but I didn’t until Whit looked down at his little notebook and asked, “You know anything about a chemical called barium carbonate?”

I knew a lot about it as an ingredient in glazes. And I immediately figured out something else I knew about it; namely, that the container of it I used in Santa Fe did not have a leak or a loose-fitting lid as I had surmised when I saw the level was lower than I remembered. It was lower because someone had used some of it to poison Barry Stiles.

“Well?” Whit prompted.

“It’s a chemical used in pottery glazes.”

“I guess that would give you the means, you being a pottery guy.”

“I still say Duran is trying to pressure me. Barry died three weeks ago. If Duran thought the barium carbonate made me a suspect, why did he wait so long to get a warrant?”

“He just found out about it. They found a fresh needle mark when they did the autopsy on Stiles and a bump on his head that the coroner said was from a blow that was probably strong enough to knock him out but not enough to kill him. So they figured someone conked him on the noggin and shot him full of poison. Trouble is, the toxicology scan didn’t show any poison. There was evidence of a heart attack, so the coroner was thinking about going with that old standby, natural causes. Then Duran got an anonymous phone call on Sunday telling him Stiles died from barium carbonate poisoning. Seems barium carbonate is not one of the chemicals the toxicology scan tests for. That was pretty sharp of you, Hubert, to use a poison they wouldn’t find. If your accomplice hadn’t ratted you out, you would’ve gotten away with it.”

“Accomplice? I didn’t have an accomplice.”

“You done it all by yourself?”

“I didn’t do it at all, by myself or with an accomplice.”

“Think about it Hubert. Like you say, you got no reason to kill Stiles. Dorkmaster and Stiles had some sort of a run-in at the restaurant, maybe argued about whose silly hat should be taller. So Dorkmaster—”

“Dorfmeister.”

“Whatever. He decides to get you to help him. I can’t see you sticking a needle in anybody, so he probably just asked you to supply the poison, knowing you would get blamed.”

“But I didn’t get blamed. Nobody did. Since the coroner ruled natural causes, why would Jürgen implicate me by tipping Duran about the barium carbonate?”

“The coroner hasn’t filed his ruling yet, so your friend was still waiting for the shoe to drop. He got tired of waiting and decided to speed things along by calling Duran. But the good news is that if you tell Duran what really happened, you can probably get off with just accessory before the fact.” Then he apparently had a brainstorm. “Matter of fact, you could just say he borrowed some of that barium stuff, and you had no idea what he wanted it for. You might walk on this one.”

“I’ve got a better story. The barium carbonate was stolen from me, and I had nothing to do with the murder. And the best part about that story is it’s true.”

He looked disappointed. “Now when did truth ever have anything to do with it? What matters is what a jury believes. You try your story and you come off as a guy trying to wash his hands of any responsibility. But you say you were duped by a friend, and you get the sympathy vote.”

I told him I preferred to stick to the truth, and he told me I could call someone to look after Geronimo before going to the police station.

44

I called Layton Kent.

Layton would be a poor choice as a dog-sitter. He would worry about getting dog hair on his suit.

He is, however, the perfect man to call if you need a get-out-of-jail card.

He showed up at the police station in a dark blue wool suit tailored to fit his three-hundred pound body perfectly. There was a silk handkerchief in his breast pocket and a Patek Philippe Sky Moon Tourbillon watch on his wrist which probably cost him more than the gross national product of Nicaragua. His hair was slicked back without a part, his face unblemished, his fingernails freshly manicured. He always has an air of royalty about him, although it is his wife, Mariella, who is said to be descended from Don Francisco Fernandez de la Cueva Enriquez, Duque de Alburquerque, the man after whom our fair city is named, minus a now famously missing first ‘r’.

Layton is the most prominent attorney in town and Mariella the most prominent socialite.

His law practice is devoted almost exclusively to crafting documents that allow one to avoid taxes, and his clients are the people most in need of such services. That would be the fabulously wealthy. The rest of us would not benefit from his services because the fees he charges exceed the taxes we pay.

He stoops to practice criminal law only when a current client needs it, and – undeservedly – I am one of those clients. Indeed, I have required his assistance in so many criminal cases that he would have dropped me long ago were it not for the fact that Mariella is a collector of traditional Native American pots from New Mexico’s pueblos, and I am her personal dealer.

We were shown to an interrogation room and left alone, a treatment those represented by a public defender probably do not receive.

“Well, Hubert. It has been almost six months since you were charged with a murder. Since none of my other clients have run afoul of the law in the interim, I was beginning to fear my criminal defense skills would atrophy. I suppose I should thank you for giving me an opportunity to stay at the top of my game.”

The pompous jackass part comes with the great attorney part, so I just ignored it and told him the entire story, during which time he had his eyes closed and his fingertips formed in a temple and resting gently against his lips. He insists on every detail no matter how small or seemingly unimportant, so it took me almost an hour to tell it all.

He remained still after I ceased my narrative. Had I not known him so well, I would have thought him asleep.

“Barry Stiles worked at Café Alsace,” he finally said, making me wonder why he noted that particular fact. “I ate there when it first opened. The food was unpalatable.”

Layton fancies himself a gourmet.

“Arliss Mansfield, Rafael Pacheco, and Wallace Voile also worked there,” he said. “Are you certain no others at Schnitzel were previously at Alsace?”

“Yes. Since Rafael is now at Schnitzel, I’m sure he would have recognized any former Alsace employees. He said just those three.”

“And the food was also bad at Schnitzel.”

“It will be much better when they re-open tomorrow,” I said.

He waved a hand dismissively. “Stiles’ death is likely rooted in something that happened at Alsace. But that is a matter to explore at trial in order to argue that other potential perpetrators are more plausible than you. Those would be Arliss Mansfield, Rafael Pacheco, and Wallace Voile. Means never trumps motive. And I would wager one of them has a motive. Furthermore, everyone working at Schnitzel had as much access to the barium carbonate as you did since your work area had no door and you were frequently not in it.”

His reasoning was sound but one of his premises was flawed, although I didn’t realize it at the time.

“I’m surprised Duran was able to get a warrant,” he noted.

“But he did, and now I’m in jail.”

He finally opened his eyes. “Don’t be melodramatic, Hubert. You are not in jail. You are merely at the police station, and you will not be here much longer. I called Judge Aragon before coming down here.”

And right on cue, one of his beautiful young paralegals came in with a signed motion to quash the warrant.

45

I had forgotten we still lacked a third Austrian/Southwestern entrée.

Being arrested for murder will do that.

So when Layton dropped me off in Old Town, I walked over to Miss Gladys’ Gift Shop and found her sitting behind her counter crocheting something.

Or maybe she was knitting. She was doing the one that requires a hook, whichever that is. She usually brings me her casseroles, so she was pleased I actually came seeking a recipe.

I explained that we needed something like tafelspitz, beef tips cooked in broth and usually served with sour cream and potatoes.

Her eyes lit up. “Oh, that would be Melba Mason’s Tender Tips Supreme. Her husband was pastor of the Holiness Temple. She served her Tender Tips every summer at the revival and never even knew all the men were washing it down with whiskey they kept hidden in the porta-potties behind the tent. She just figured they were going out back so often because of her sweet tea.”

She listed the ingredients as sirloin tips coated in flour and browned, chopped green onions, frozen hash browns, canned mushroom soup, canned beef broth, Worcestershire sauce, ketchup and the ingredient that told me we had to try this – ginger ale.

After convincing her I didn’t want her to cook some for me, I went directly to Dos Hermanas and told Susannah she had been right.

“About what?” she asked, looking at me over the saltless rim of her otherwise perfect margarita.

“About everything. You said I would become a suspect, and today I was arrested. You said Barry Stiles was injected with poison, and he was.” I shook my head in amazement. “I’m surprised you didn’t also figure out the poison was one of my glazing chemicals.”

“I didn’t know glazing chemicals are poison.”

“Neither did I. There’s a fume hood in my workshop, but they have those in the restaurant, too. I figured the city required me to have it merely because any fumes are bad for your lungs. I never guessed I was working with poisons.”

“What poison is it?”

“Barium carbonate.”

“Oh, rat poison.”

“What? You’ve heard of it?”

“Yeah, we use it on the ranch.”

“O.K. you seem to know everything about this whole situation, so who killed Barry Stiles?”

“Wallace Voile.”

“Really?” I felt like I had just stepped through the looking glass. “Why?”

“First, there’s her name.”

“You said it was romantic.” Maybe Rafael thinks so, too, I thought to myself.

“It’s romantic when the last name is Simpson. But no one names girls Wallace, so Voile is using an alias, and people who do that usually have something to hide.”

“That seems a little weak.”

“You haven’t heard it all. Second, she worked at Café Alsace, so she has a previous connection with Barry.”

“So do Arliss and Rafael.”

“Why do you always call him Rafael?”

I turned up a palm. “I like the name, I guess.”

“Anyway, from the way you described Arliss, I can’t see him as a murderer, and I know Ice didn’t do it.”

I ate some salsa on a chip and washed it down with a margarita properly attired with a salty rim. Then I just sat there.

“O.K.,” she said, “I didn’t think hmm zuu was a murderer either, and I was wrong. But this time I’m not.”

“Hmm zuu?”

“I promised myself not to mention his name any more.”

“Oh, him.” I hoped she was right. “What else?” I asked.

“In addition to using an alias and having a past connection with the victim, Voile is the perfect villain because she is so unlikely. The beautiful woman who seems to have it all. She doesn’t kill men – they kill for her.”

“That may be the way it works in fiction, but in real life the murderer is usually the most obvious suspect. Although I admit I could see her sneaking up behind Barry and clocking him with a hammer. Then jabbing a needle full of poison into him. She seems coldblooded enough to do that. But why?”

“Jeez,” she said jokingly, “I already figured out who did it. The least you could do is supply the motive.”

46

 “Our second Grand Opening in a month,” I said to Jürgen and Alain.

Jürgen contradicted me. “It is not the second because it is a re-opening,”

Alain wagged a finger. “Non. It is a Grand Opening. We are no longer Schnitzel. We are Chile Schnitzel.”

“Doesn’t roll trippingly off the tongue, does it?” said Jürgen.

Alain shrugged. “We will see what the public thinks.”

I handed them each a copy of what I had labeled Tafelspitz Sangre de Cristo. The green onions had been replaced with chiles, the hash browns with fresh potatoes, and the ketchup had given way to enchilada sauce. The dish was topped with crema Mexicana mixed with horseradish.

Alain looked up from the paper. “What is ginger ale?”

“The key ingredient,” I said.

He took a sip from a cold can I had brought with me. “Ah. It is like the strange ginger beer the English drink, but the American one is weaker.” He shuddered. “And sweeter.”

“Ginger beer would work better with the beef,” said Jürgen.

“The recipe is yours,” I said to them. “Do with it as you please.”

“I will go to buy Ginger Beer and tafelspitz,” said Jürgen.

I was confused. “I thought we would make the tafelspitz, not buy it.”

“Tafelspitz is a cut of meat from the tritip.”

“If you can’t find tritip, you can use sirloin,” I said. “That’s what the original recipe calls for.”

Jürgen dismissed my suggestion with a raised hand. “In Austria they use many substitutes such as hueferscherzl, hueferschwanzl, wadlstutzen, gschnatter, schwarzes scherzl, weisses scherzl, duennes kuegerl, and schalblattel.”

“All excellent choices,” I said with a straight face.

Alain looked at me, perplexed. I pulled him aside after Jürgen departed. “Have you given any thought to what will happen when the customers tonight pay with a credit card?”

“They must pay with cash.”

“Americans don’t carry cash. When they see we insist on cash, most of them will leave.”

“But if they pay with the card,” he said, “the money will go to an account controlled by Molinero. He relented to our plan, but he has not been here since the Sunday meeting. I do not like to say this, but I am not certain we can trust him.”

“My nephew came with me this morning. He can reprogram the machine to a different account.”

“This is legal?”

I shrugged. I had asked myself that question and given myself the same answer.

Alain thought about it briefly. “We are not stealing the money. We will use it to keep the restaurant alive.”