The Pot Thief Who Studied Escoffier (7 page)

I approached the Bronco warily. The back window was down as I had left it, and I was happy to see Jürgen’s motionless form between the tailgate and the back seat. I reached in to poke him awake, then hesitated.

During the night, he had lost about eighty pounds, and his hair had turned from black to brown.

When reason took over, I realized the body in the Bronco was not Jürgen.

Then I realized it was indeed a body.

I don’t know how I knew that, but I couldn’t have been more certain of it had he sported a toe tag and been under a white sheet in the morgue. It wasn’t the bump on his head – it didn’t look bad enough to be fatal.

Maybe I sensed there was no rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. Maybe it was his unnaturally awkward position. Maybe it was his pallor. The skin on the back of his neck had a bluish grey tinge. In the cold night air of Santa Fe’s 7200 feet, he had dropped considerably below 98.6 degrees. He was not so cold that you could use him to ice down a bottle of Gruet, but neither was he room temperature.

I stood there debating whether to touch him. If by some miracle he were alive, I didn’t want him to die because I failed to seek help. So despite the fact that I was positive he was dead, and despite the fact that I hated the idea of touching a dead person, I placed my hand on his shoulder and shoved him.

“Barry?” I said.

He didn’t answer. I touched his neck. It was even colder than it looked. I went back to my room and called 911. Then I sat there wondering how a live Jürgen Dorfmeister had become a dead Barry Stiles in the back of my Bronco in the parking garage of the La Fonda.

I figured there were three possible explanations for Stiles’ death.

The least likely scenario was natural causes. He was walking through the parking garage, had a heart attack and climbed into my Bronco before he died? Someone found him dead and put him in the vehicle because he didn’t want to leave the poor unlucky deceased on the floor?

The second possibility was that Barry was murdered, and someone wanted to frame me by leaving the body in my truck. Weird things like that have happened to me in the past, but I couldn’t think of anyone with a motive to harm me.

The most likely explanation, I decided, was that Barry was killed for some reason having nothing to do with me. The murder took place in or near the parking garage, and the murderer selected my vehicle as a good place to dump the body because the back window was open. Even that explanation had too many coincidences. I knew the victim. He was in the parking garage of my hotel. He ended up in my Bronco.

I decided to say as little as possible to the Police.

The detective from the Santa Fe Police Department was named Danny Duran. He had a chiseled face and a bodybuilder’s physique. He was about my height. His dark suit looked like it would fit me perfectly. It fit him like a wetsuit. Maybe he’d bought it before he started lifting weights. He told me the body was being taken to the morgue and my Bronco was being impounded as evidence. He was chewing gum.

“I’ll need the key to your vehicle.”

I had a moment of panic because I remembered Jürgen asking for my keys. Then I remembered I didn’t give them to him. I found them in my jacket pocket, took the Ford key off the ring and gave it to him.

“Tell me about the body in your vehicle.”

“I went to the parking garage about eight thirty. I saw the body in the back. I touched him and realized he was dead. Then I came up here and dialed 911.”

He made notes as I spoke. “Where did you touch him?”

“In the parking garage.” I thought that was obvious, but didn’t say so.

He looked up from his note book. “Where on his body did you touch him?”

“Oh. On his shoulder. He was wearing a jacket. I didn’t want to touch his skin.”

He looked up again.

“I didn’t want to touch a dead person. But then I did touch his neck just to make sure he was dead,” I said.

He nodded. “Did you know the deceased?”

“Yes. His name is… was Barry Stiles.”

“How did you know him and for how long?”

“I first saw him on Friday, but I didn’t meet him until Saturday. He and I were both working at Schnitzel, a new restaurant that hasn’t opened yet.”

“You a cook? A waiter?”

“No, I’m a ceramicist. I’m making plates for the restaurant.”

“No kidding? I didn’t know restaurants had their plates special made. How about Stiles? He helping you make plates?”

“No, he was a cook.”

“So you met him three days ago?”

I nodded.

“What were the circumstances?”

“The manager of the restaurant asked the workers to give me ideas about what design to put on the plates. The cooks and other people have been dropping by as they got the chance.”

“How long you two talk?”

“A couple of minutes.”

“Why so short?”

“I was in a hurry to leave. I wanted to get back home. I live in Albuquerque, but I’ve been working up here. That’s why I’m here in the hotel.”

“What did he say to you?”

“He suggested a design for the plates.”

I was hoping he wouldn’t ask me what design Barry had suggested. I didn’t want to go into the public reprimand Kuchen had delivered. But Duran was thorough.

“What design did he suggest?”

“A swastika.”

He looked up from his notes. “Was he joking?”

“I don’t think so.”

“What was he, a skinhead or something?”

“I don’t know.”

“What did you say about his suggestion?”

“I ignored it. I didn’t think he really wanted a swastika on the plates.”

His stare suggested I was being less than totally forthcoming. Or maybe I just read that into his stare because I was.

“Then why did he suggest it?”

I didn’t want to implicate anyone. I did want to tell the truth. “The head chef had criticized him rather severely in front of the whole staff. Barry was just venting his anger.”

“They have a bad relationship?”

“I have no idea. I’ve only been there two days.”

“Maybe they had a confrontation.”

It wasn’t a question, but he looked at me as if he expected me to confirm or deny the confrontation.

“The only time I ever saw them interact was when the chef scolded him.”

Duran stared at me a few seconds more.

“You see him since Saturday?”

“Yeah, I saw him at work yesterday, but we didn’t speak.”

“So the only time you ever spoke to him was Saturday for a couple of minutes?”

“Right.”

“So how do you suppose he ended up dead in your vehicle?”

I shook my head. “I started thinking about that after I made the 911 call and calmed down.”

“And?”

“I have no idea.”

He stared at me. He was good at starring because he didn’t blink. He chewed his gum. Chomp, chomp.

Finally he said, “Any theory?”

“Maybe someone put him in my Bronco because the window was down.”

He stared at me some more. Then he looked down at his note pad but didn’t write anything. He was reading his notes. “Don’t tell anyone that Stiles was found in your vehicle.”

I wanted to ask why, but all I said was, “O.K.”

“And don’t leave town.”

“I live in Albuquerque.”

“O.K., don’t leave the state.”

18

I walked to Schnitzel and discovered the police had been there and everyone knew about Barry Stiles. Presumably they didn’t know where his body was found, so when the saucier, Maria Salazar, told me he was dead, I said that was terrible and went looking for Jürgen Dorfmeister.

I found him at his station cleaning the grills.

“I need to talk to you. Outside.”

“Excellent,” he said. “I need a smoke.”

We went to the loading dock, and I asked him if he’d actually slept in my Bronco.

He exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Only for an hour. I was freezing when I woke up. But that was good because I was sober. So I walked home.”

“When was that?”

“About one o’clock.”

“Did you see anyone around the truck as you left?”

“No. It was the middle of the night.”

“No one outside the garage maybe?”

“Why all the questions?”

I lied. “Something is missing from the Bronco.” Yeah, an explanation for why a dead man was in it, I thought to myself.

At that point, Scruggs stuck his head out and told us everyone was gathering in the dining room.

Molinero announced that the police had informed him that Barry Stiles had passed away. No one gasped. Molinero told us the cause of death had not yet been determined. An investigation was ongoing. He asked for a moment of silence. When the moment had passed, he said we would close for the day in honor of Barry and be back at work the next morning.

As people began to rise from their chairs, I blurted out, “Excuse me” more loudly than I had intended. When everyone turned to me, I said, “I’d like to say something.”

They sat back down. Molinero looked perplexed.

I cleared my throat. “The Titanic had thirty two cooks. When it sank, thirty one of them died. They were not fellow employees of Auguste Escoffier, but he published their pictures and biographies in his magazine. He also raised money for their families. I think we need something other than a moment of silence for Barry Stiles.”

They were staring at me as if I were an idiot. I didn’t blame them – I felt like one.

“What do you propose?” asked Molinero.

“I don’t have a specific proposal. You knew him better than I did. Did he have a family? A favorite charity?”

Dead silence.

Alain Billot said to Molinero, “If you like, I could look into the matter and make a recommendation.”

Molinero looked relieved. “Thank you, Alain.” He looked around the room. “Does everyone find that satisfactory?”

A few heads nodded. A few faint yeses were murmured.

“Fine,” said Molinero, “see you all in the morning.”

As people dispersed, I went to my workplace. I put the test piece with my experimental glaze in the kiln and stared into the kiln as the elements began to glow.

“That was very nice of you.”

I turned to see Maria Salazar in the doorway.

“It felt awkward,” I said.

“But you spoke up. That’s the important thing. I don’t think people liked Barry very much, but he was a colleague, and we should do something.” She hesitated. “I don’t know what.”

“Me neither. Maybe Alain will come up something.”

“Maybe.” She took a couple of steps into the private dining room. “I saved you a seat next to me when I saw you had been trapped by M’Lanta at the first few meals. But then you sat next to Jürgen. Maybe you two are pals?”

I laughed. “I guess we are now. Last night…”

I remembered I was not to tell anyone Barry was found in my Bronco, and telling her about last night would lead in that direction so I changed course and said, “Actually, I sat by him because he’s Austrian, and I figured he could explain what we were eating.”

“I could do that, too. I have to know all the dishes. I’m the saucier.”

She said it like she meant it.

“What will you do with your day off?” she asked.

“Well, I can’t go home because my truck …”

Oops. Can’t go there either, I thought. She must be thinking I have early Alzheimer’s and can’t finish sentences.

She smiled. “Won’t start? I noticed you walked to work this morning.”

“I like walking, although it’s cold today.”

“But the sun is out. Would you like to go for a walk with me?”

“Sure. Let me get my jacket.”

We walked to the Plaza, our hands in the pockets of our jackets. She asked me how I knew about Escoffier and the cooks on the Titanic, and I told her I’d been reading his memoires. She asked me about my work. She didn’t know anything about Indian pottery, so I pointed out some of the pots in the store windows and told her about them.

She pointed to a shiny purple jug with an iridescent glaze. “What about that one?”

“That’s called a raku glaze. That’s all I can tell you about it. I only know Indian pottery.”

“But it was made by an Indian. It lists his name and pueblo on the little sign there.”

I squinted to read it. “So it does. But it’s not traditional.”

“Is that bad?”

I shrugged. “People are free to make whatever they like. I stick to traditional designs.”

“You sound like Gunter,” she said teasingly. “I wanted to do creative new sauces for some of the dishes, but he said, ‘We must use the traditional sauces’,” she said, trying to imitate his voice. “Did I sound like him?”

“No,” I said, “but you did sound like Arnold Schwarzenegger.”

She laughed and placed her hand inside the crook of my elbow. I escorted her around the rest of the Plaza like a gentleman. When we finished our lap, she said, “Would you like to have lunch?”

We ate at La Casa Sena, no doubt one of the reasons Santa Fe was on Alain Billot’s list of best restaurant towns in the United States. Maria had the poblano chile relleno stuffed with saffron quinoa, yellow squash, crimini mushrooms, asadero cheese, and something they called red chile tropical sauce. Her professional opinion as a saucier was that the sauce was perfect. She gave me a taste and I agreed. She offered me a taste of the stuffing, but I declined because it had quinoa, the eating of which I suspect explains why the Incas never developed the wheel. Quinoa has become popular in New Mexico recently, perhaps because it’s related to the tumbleweed. The main difference is the tumbleweed tastes better.

I had the New Mexican trout which came with grilled asparagus, cucumber and lemon salsa, achiote and sweet pea rice and Cuban mojo. I rarely eat in restaurants. I enjoy my own cooking and don’t like crowds.

La Casa Sena is crowded for good reason. The food is great. The crowd didn’t bother me because we had a corner table, and I was too intent on the food and Maria to pay much attention to anything else.

I ordered a split of Gruet.

Maria countermanded my order by telling the waitress, “We’ll have the full bottle.” Then she looked at me and said, “Half bottles are for work days.”

We talked about food. She asked if her poblano chile was the same thing as a chile she had seen in a grocery store labeled as a pasilla. It was, but only because the one in the store was mislabeled. I was happy to show off by explaining that a true pasilla (“little raisin” in Spanish) is a dried chilaca which is used only to make sauces. It is long and narrow whereas the poblano is short and wide. Confusingly, many grocery stores and even some restaurants use the words poblano and pasilla interchangeably.