The Pot Thief Who Studied Pythagoras (29 page)

The cops had moved around him, but he continued his trade. “I tried to help you, man. But what do I get? Treachery. Well, listen up, wimp. You may have the upper hand now, but I’m coming after you, man, and I’ll grind you in the dirt like a worm.”

I have to tell you, I was scared even though the uniformed policemen had cuffed him.

“You may come after me,” I said, “but it won’t until you’ve done fifteen to life.”

63

“Wow, Uncle Hubert. You were like Sherlock Holmes tonight.”

Tristan was eating some of the dip made from the onion soup mix and enjoying a beer from my fridge.

“Sherlock Holmes,” I said, “lived in rented rooms and took drugs.”

“Whatever,” said Tristan. “And on top of that, you’re a local hero. I can’t believe it. My uncle is in the newspaper as a murder suspect and a pot thief, and all my friends are calling me to say how cool it is that you’re my uncle.”

I shrugged.

“But you didn’t kill anyone, and you didn’t really steal anything, did you?”

“Well,” I said, “I certainly didn’t murder anyone. As far as the theft issue, that sort of depends on your definition of…”

“I knew it. And you recovered that pot that was stolen from the Museum, and they made a lot of money at the auction to help students.”

“That’s true,” I admitted.

“What’s that music?”

“That’s Billie Holiday.”

“I like it.”

“You never told me about the girl you took to that alternative to music concert.”

“‘Alternative music’ Uncle Hubert, not ‘alternative to music.’”

“Right.”

“Selena. I’m not seeing her anymore.”

I dipped a chip into the pecan and peaches dip. She was right; it was better than it sounds. Then I decided I had to have a beer.

Tristan said, “Aren’t you going to ask me why?”

“I didn’t want to pry.”

“It’s not prying. I like having you to talk to about these things.”

“This isn’t going to be a birds and bees discussion is it?’

He laughed that deep laugh that seems to come up from his stomach and has a tremolo to it. “I hope not,” he said.

“Whew,” I replied.

“She just came on too strong. I was cool with her asking me to go to the concert. I don’t think guys always have to do the asking. But all night long she kept asking me questions about myself and she didn’t even pay much attention to the music. She’s really good looking, and I think she’s smart, but …” His voice trailed off.

“Did you see her again after the concert?”

“Yeah. I decided it was my turn, so I took her to a movie. Afterwards we went for coffee, and while I was trying to talk about the movie, she was talking about herself—what she likes and doesn’t like and all, and the same thing about me—what do I like, what do I not like. I guess that’s normal. When you date someone, you want to get to know each other.”

“Tristan, getting to know someone isn’t a matter of cataloging what they like and don’t like. You don’t tell people who you are; you show them. Dates are opportunities to do things, hear music, see movies, go rafting. You get a feel for someone by seeing them do things and doing those things with them. It’s O.K. to ask questions, of course. But when it comes to ‘show and tell,’ dating is more about showing than telling.”

“Wow, Uncle Hubert. I guess wisdom does come with age. You really put your finger on it. I wanted to do things with her, but she just wanted to interview me.”

“Well,” I said, “I’m pushing middle age and still live alone in the back of a shop, so I don’t think I qualify as an expert in relationships. Who are you seeing now?”

He took out his PDA and pretended to scroll through a long list.

“I think I’ve run out of disc storage,” he said.

“I can see that not hitting it off with Selena has you really broken up.”

He laughed. “Thanks for the talk. And thanks for including me tonight. It was a radically new experience for me. And it’s also good to see bad guys get caught.”

“Yes, and as you said, the University even got a scholarship out of the deal.”

“But the scholarship is limited to art students,” Tristan complained. “That’s a real bummer. I mean art scholarships are so easy to get. Everybody wants to help the starving artists. But does anyone ever stop to think why they’re starving? It’s because they’re not providing a good or service people really need. I mean, there’s an artist on every street corner. But everyone needs help with their computer, don’t they? There are millions of people like you, Uncle Hubert, who don’t know the first things about computers—no disrespect intended—and they could use the help of a college graduate professional. But do we have enough of them? No. And why? Because there’s not enough scholarship money for computer majors; it all goes to art students. And on top of that…”

“Tristan!”

“Yes, Uncle Hubert?”

“How much do you need?”

64

I guess I don’t have to tell you where Susannah and I were that next night.

“That was some confrontation last night,” she said.

“I’m just glad the cops were out in force. I think Reggie would have killed me with his bare hands.”

“Which reminds me; I have some questions. You told me at first that Tristan speculated that the person who came into your shop at 6:57 must have stepped over the beam when he left. That could still be true, couldn’t it?”

“Not really. If that had happened, there would have to be two interruptions that morning, one when Reggie came in and one when he left. But there was only one, the one at 9:22.”

“O.K., but when Reggie searched your place and didn’t find the Bandelier Pot, why didn’t he just take some of the other stuff? After all, you have a lot of valuable pots.”

“True. But like Hugo Berdal, he wouldn’t know that. If he took the pot Guvelly had described to him, he would be safe because it was stolen to begin with, and he knew he could get the finder’s fee. But if he took anything else, he would put himself at risk, so he played it safe.”

“O.K. But why did Crow of firstNAtions come to threaten you?”

“Crow and Smith had the cooperation of Guvelly to run their protection racket. I expect Guvelly got a cut. So Guvelly could order them to scare me in hopes that I would crack and give them the pot.”

“But you didn’t have the pot.”

“Yeah, but they didn’t know that.”

“What will happen to them?”

“firstNAtions?”

“Yeah.”

“Nothing. Crow and Smith were granted immunity in exchange for testifying that they saw Nordquist and Berdal arrive together at the Hyatt. They also agreed, as part of the deal, to end their protection racket.”

“You think they will?”

“No, but they’ll probably move it somewhere else.”

We waved to Angie for more salsa and chips.

“You must be feeling pretty good right now,” Susannah said to me.

“I do. The pots are back where they belong, the bad guys are in jail, and Kaylee and Arturo have found true happiness.”

“But Consuela is no better.”

“It’s real life, Suze; not everything gets resolved. But she and Emilio seem as happy now as they were before she got sick. Maybe true love does conquer all.”

“I still believe that,” she said. Her eyes were moist but there was a smile on her face.

“I have something for you,” she said and handed me a small cardboard tube.

I took off the end cap, extracted a piece of paper, unrolled it, and saw a fascinating drawing. Two thin lines captured the look of a desert horizon. Two vertical stylized arms met at that horizon, and their hands wound around each other like a double helix. The double helix formed a pot. The entire thing hinted at the Zia sun, New Mexico’s symbol. The lines were simple yet highly suggestive of the southwest.

I looked up at Susannah. “This is great work. Did you draw this?”

“No, Hubert. My friends drew it. That’s your new logo.”

I had forgotten all about the logo project. “It’s fantastic.”

“You really like it?”

“More than I can say.”

“So you’ll use it for your business?”

“Absolutely.”

“Well,” she said, “now that you’ve seen the logo, does any name for your shop leap to mind.”

I looked at the hand coming up from the soil and thought of the spirits of the ancient potters.

“Spirits in Clay,” I announced.

“That’s a great name; I’ll tell my friends about it.”

“Feeling better today?” I asked Susannah.

“Not really, but at least I’ve stopped crying every five minutes. Are my eyes still bloodshot?”

“They are, but the swelling in your nose seems to have gone down.”

“Thanks a lot.” She slumped back in her chair and looked at me. “You think either one of us will ever find that certain someone?”

“You will, Suze; I’m certain of it. As for me, well, Kaylee may have been my last shot.”

She laughed and choked briefly then laughed again.

“I’ve got something here I know you’ll like,” I said.

I handed her a section of the Los Angeles Times. I had circled the article with the headline that read, Local Professor Arrested for Art Theft.

As she read she kept glancing up at me and her look evolved from incredulous to pleased. “I can’t believe this. The only time that bastard was ever in the Valle del Rio was when I gave him a private tour after his lecture. And while I was being such a great host and fawning student, he was stealing a Remington right under my nose.”

“Maybe not,” I said. “Read the related story right below.”

“Art Historian’s Troubles Inflate,” she read aloud. The story read, “Kauffmann Williburton, the well-known art historian accused of stealing a Remington bronze from a museum in New Mexico is experiencing troubles on other fronts as well. It seems the police search of his house turned up not only the missing Remington under the couch in the living room but also an inflatable woman under the bed in the master bedroom. The police took no action since possession of an inflatable woman is not illegal in California, but Mrs. Williburton is suing for divorce.”

“Hubie! That’s Berdal’s woman.”

I just smiled.

“And you took the Remington when you were switching pots with Doak.”

Another smile. But nothing to match Susannah’s. Then she started laughing, and I started laughing with her. And we both kept laughing as we waved for Angie.

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