The Pot Thief Who Studied Georgia O'Keeffe (5 page)

11

S
usannah left for her night class—it's Modern American Painters this semester—and I strolled back across the plaza knowing my cupboard was bare. I hadn't bought groceries in weeks because getting to the store by bus and returning with sacks while using crutches was too much hassle. And now that the cast was off, the battery in the Bronco was dead.

It's hard to save either money or your waistline living on restaurant food. I was craving something simple. What I got instead was spaghetti pie, courtesy of Miss Gladys Claiborne, proprietor of the eponymous Miss Gladys's Gift Shop two doors down from me, where she took up residence after her husband died. Most owners of the galleries, eateries and specialty stores in Old Town retreat to their suburban homes after locking up for the day. Miss Gladys and I are the only two on our street who actually live here, and we have a symbiotic relationship. I provide security for her, and she provides food for me.

The reality falls short of the theory.

As a woman raised in a bygone age, she believes a man provides security. Fortunately, she has never needed me to come to her rescue. I suspect she would put up a better fight against an intruder than I would.

Her cooking … No, you can't call it that.
Assembling
is the more accurate word. Her casseroles are assembled from ready-to-eat foods used in the exact quantity of the packages they are sold in. Thus, teaspoons, tablespoons and cupfuls give way to cans, jars, bags and cartons.

Her spaghetti pie contains one package of spaghetti, one bag of Parmesan cheese, one can of Wolf Brand Chili, one can of Ro*Tel Original Diced Tomatoes & Green Chilies, one container of Philadelphia Savory Garlic cooking cream and one bag of shredded mozzarella cheese.

“The spaghetti and Parmesan make the crust. Doesn't that just beat all? You just throw them together and press them against the bottom and sides of a baking dish. Then you dump in the can of chili and the Ro*Tel. You mix the cream cheese and mozzarella together for the topping. Then just bake it until the crust is golden.”

As usual, she brought the casserole in a bag made from gingham and embroidered with an image of the gazebo in the plaza. I don't know what gingham is made from, but it must be a sturdy fabric to hold a ceramic plate, a glass baking dish in a cozy warmer and a thermos of sweet tea.

The fact that she can carry such a load is the basis for my assessment of her odds against an intruder.

Although Miss Gladys's concoctions are seldom on the approved foods list of the American Heart Association, some of them are surprisingly tasty. This one was not. I know this is almost un-American, but I do not like pasta with its slimy texture and cardboard taste. The only reason people think they like it is because it's usually slathered with marinara or some other misuse of perfectly good tomatoes.

“Just look at that,” she said, her blue eyes sparkling. “The spaghetti is the exact color of a pie crust and the mozzarella topping looks like buttercream frosting.”

“Maybe I should save it for dessert.”

She laughed at my ploy to avoid eating the pie and poured me some sweet tea. The fact that I was able to choke it down with a smile is testament to my fondness for Miss Gladys.

12

T
he indigestion started only minutes after Miss Gladys departed. I was beginning to think Wolf Brand Chili must be named after its main ingredient.

The Old Town Guild was having one of their dreaded Business After Hours events at La Placita. I walked to the southeast corner of the plaza and crossed the street into the eatery where Susannah works the lunch shift.

Despite the fact that I rarely attend these events, my name tag sat on a table next to those of the other no-shows. I pinned it to my jacket and headed for the hors d'oeuvres table, where I found the perfect remedy for spaghetti pie—pico de gallo, a proper use of the noble tomato. I spooned some onto a plate, grabbed some tortilla chips and stepped into the line for the cash bar.

A man fell in line behind me and said, “Hello. I'm Glad.”

“About what?”

“No, that is my name, short for Gladwyn,” he said, pointing to his name tag, which read Gladwyn Farthing.

“I'm Hubie,” I said.

“Your name badge is wrong.”

I looked down to see if I had picked up the wrong tag.

“No, that's my name—Hubert.”

“I meant you have it in the wrong place. You should pin it on your right lapel.”

“I'm left-handed.”

“Doesn't matter, does it? You still shake with your right hand, which means you should have your tag on the right because that's the side people see as they shake your hand.”

Now I remembered why I don't attend these things—inane conversations.

As you may have guessed from his name, he was English. He looked to be in his sixties. He sounded like a character in
Downton Abbey
but looked like one in Looney Tunes; namely, Porky Pig. Pursed lips, pink skin and a blunt nose.

“Thanks for the tip about name tags,” I said, hoping thusly to bring our chat to an end.

“Doesn't matter you have it on incorrectly. I already knew who you are.”

“Oh?”

“I'm told you may have commercial space to let.”

I was waiting for him to finish the sentence when it dawned on me that he was using
let
the way we use
lease
.

“I do have a vacant space, but I don't have it listed.”

“I didn't get the information from an estate agent. I got it by asking about. Have you any interest in letting it?”

Letting it what?
I wondered.

My shop and residence are in an adobe built by Don Fernando María Aranjuez Aragon in 1683. At some point during its 333 years of existence, it was divided into three parcels. I own the east third. Miss Gladys owns the west third. I lease the middle third from Benny Orozco, who is descended from Don Pablo Benedicion Verahuenza Orozco, who bought the building from its original owner for fifteen pesetas in 1691.

When the middle third became vacant, I leased it because I thought I wanted two shops, one featuring traditional Native American pottery and one featuring my copies. Running two stores proved to be a hassle, so I reconsolidated.

Now the leased space sits empty while I make monthly payments. It makes no economic sense, but at least I've come to realize why I leased it in the first place. It wasn't because I needed two shops. It was because I didn't want to risk having a body-piercing emporium or pawn shop as a neighbor.

“How would you use the space?” I asked Glad.

“Casual clothing—jumpers, trainers, plimsolls, swimming costumes—that sort of thing.”

The perfect business, right? Nothing noisy or open late. No rowdy customers. No cooking smells. Never mind that I have no idea what a plimsoll is and that a bathing costume sounds like something Esther Williams would wear at Halloween. This could be a way to get those lease payments made by someone else.

“I might be interested. Would you like to see the space?”

“I have already done so. Looked through the glass door, you see.”

No, I thought to myself, if you looked through the glass door, I wouldn't see—
you
would see.

“How much will you let it for?”

“It's a thousand square feet, and retail space in Old Town goes for about a dollar a foot.”

“A thousand a month is beyond my budget. I have a proposal. The town I come from, Ludlow, is home to many sole-proprietor shops. When the shopkeeper has to run an errand or visit a doctor's surgery, he closes up and posts a notice. We in England are used to it. But you Yanks seem less patient. You expect shops to keep regular hours.”

I could have sworn he said
shoppes
. I could almost hear the extra letters. I nodded my agreement to his observation.

“I propose that I mind your store when you are away, and in consideration thereof, you reduce the lease to eight hundred.”

Since eight hundred is the exact amount I was paying Benny Orozco, I was tempted to accept his offer on the spot. But I hesitated.

“I'll stand you a drink,” he said.

We had reached the front of the line. He ordered a pink gin. I asked for a Tecate. He paid. We found a table, worked out the details and made a toast to our new business arrangement. The good fortune of meeting Glad was a small step toward solvency.

13

S
harice walked into Spirits in Clay the next day around noon with a young cheetah on a leash.

Geronimo yelped, then bolted headlong into the door to the workshop. Bouncing off it didn't injure him—his head is more skull than brain. He popped back up and began clawing furiously at the door, looking back every few seconds to make sure the cheetah was still on its leash.

I took pity on him and opened the door.

“Sorry,” she said, laughing. “I should have called to warn you, but I wanted it to be a surprise. I don't like laughing at Geronimo, but you have to admit he doesn't quite live up to his name.”

I made a feeble attempt to defend his courage. “Well, he's never seen a cheetah before.”

“It's not a cheetah. It's a Savannah cat.”

“Wow. They grow them big in Georgia.” The beast was twice the length of a dachshund and a whole lot taller—it came up past Sharice's knees.

“It's not from Georgia. Savannah cats are a cross between a serval and a domestic cat.”

“I know cats are domestic, but I've never known one to be servile. Only dogs seem anxious to serve their masters.”

“Not
servile
.
Serval
, with the accent on the first syllable. Servals are a breed of wild cats from Africa.”

“Africa?”

“Don't worry, it's not an ethnic thing. I'm not going to start wearing dashikis and grand boubous.” She laughed. “Unless they're designed by Coco Chanel or Yves Saint Laurent.”

She let the animal off its leash, took a beanbag from her pocket and threw it in my direction. The cat sprung into the air and caught the beanbag in flight. Then he landed on the counter in front of me. He leaned in my direction and stared into my eyes. Then he gave me a swat on the nose, jumped off the counter and returned the beanbag to Sharice.

“He plays fetch?”

“He does.” She threw the beanbag at the door. He ran it down, brought it back and dropped it at her feet.

“He likes you, Hubie.”

“He took a swipe at me.”

“Yeah, but he kept his claws in. That means he likes you.”

Probably a good thing. It was clear I'd be unable to fend off an attack from him, and Geronimo had already demonstrated how much help he'd be.

“His name is Benz. Kathy bought him about a year ago, but she has to give him up because she's marrying a guy who's afraid of him.”

“At least he has some sense, although marrying Kathy makes me wonder.”

Kathy is one of the other assistants in Dr. Batres's office. She cleaned my teeth the first time I went there.

“I'd forgotten you know her. Why did you ask for a change?”

I couldn't hide the sheepish grin. “I saw you in the next room.”

“I'm glad you switched.”

“Me too.”

“Servals tend to be like dogs—attached to one person. So before I agreed to take him, I had a long talk with Erik and Kurt Durnberg, the guys who sold him to Kathy. Funny you mentioned Georgia. The Durnbergs' cattery is right next-door in Florida. It has a cool name: Soignés Savannahs.”

“More French. What does it mean?”

“Elegantly dressed.”

“Describes you both.”

“Thanks. Erik and Kurt told me Savannahs can also have an attachment to a second person, and for Benz, that's me. I would cat sit when Kathy was away. I fell in love with him the first time he stayed with me. I was still living in that dreary apartment on San Mateo, and he cheered me up. I wasn't dating, so he was about the only company I had away from work.” She paused. “I'm hoping you'll be spending a lot of time at my place.”

“Me too.”

“You won't mind Benz being there?”

“Not at all. You two look stunning together—both so lean and lithe. But I may have to put Geronimo in therapy.”

14

T
hat cinches it. She's in love with you. And she sees it as permanent. Wait …” She cupped a hand to her ear. “Are those wedding bells I hear?”

“Just because she got a cat?”

“It's not getting the cat—it's the timing. She was living all alone in what she admits was a dreary apartment, and she loved having Benny for company.”

“Benz,” I corrected.

“With a
z
like in Mercedes?”

“Mercedes doesn't have a
z
.”

“Sheesh. Anyway, the cat is the only bright spot in her life. But she doesn't buy one or adopt one from the shelter. And why not?”

She took a sip of her margarita and looked at me.

“She's allergic to cats?”

“Why would she take Benz if she's allergic to cats?”

“Because Savannah cats are hypoallergenic.”

“Really?”

“That's what she told me.”

“Well, that's not the answer. The reason she didn't get a cat was because she wasn't dating.”

“That doesn't make sense. Not dating is all the more reason to have a pet for companionship.”

“I figured you wouldn't understand. She wasn't dating, but she was
hoping
to. Believe me, I know. I've been there too many times. So she didn't get a cat for fear of becoming a cat lady.”

“Cat Lady is one of those superheroes like Batman, right?”

“Wrong. A cat lady is an unmarried woman who dotes on her cat. In severe cases they can lose interest in dating because they're so wrapped up in the life of their cat. Or cats—usually they begin to collect them like stamps.”

“Except you have to lick stamps, whereas cats take care of that themselves.”

She just shook her head. “So now that she has a boyfriend, she doesn't have to worry about being a cat lady, so that's why she took Benz.”

“No. She took Benz because Kathy had to give him up. It's just a coincidence that it happened while she and I are dating.”

“Men are clueless.”

I didn't dispute the point.

“Tell me about Glad.”

“He ordered a pink gin.”

“What's a pink gin?”

“Gin with a dash of bitters.”

“Yuck. Probably need a stiff upper lip to drink it. Why is he called Glad?”

“It's short for Gladwyn.”

“I'll bet he's Welsh, and his last name is full of
w
's and
l
's, something like Llewellyn. He probably comes from a town with a name like Caerfyrddin or Llanymddyfri.”

She pronounced them “Carmarthen” and “Landovery,” but how would I know if she got them right?

“He came from Ludlow, and his last name is Farthing.”

“It's a good thing he didn't shorten that one to the first four letters.”

“You really are clever with words.”

“You have to be to know how to pronounce Caerfyrddin and Llanymddyfri.”

“It probably helps that your last name is Inchaustigui. Is Welsh related to Basque?”

“Funny you should ask. The languages aren't related but the people are. The Basque were the first people to arrive in the British Isles after the last Ice Age. Over eighty percent of the Welsh today still have DNA from those early Basque settlers.”

“One of my Schuze Anthropological Premises is that culture is not genetic. DNA has nothing to do with language.”

“I don't need one of your SAPs to know that. The Basques in England were overrun by Celts and adopted their language. But maybe speaking Basque limbers up the tongue for weird Welsh words.”

“At any rate, I don't think Glad is Welsh. He looks nothing like Tom Jones.”

“He probably doesn't look like Catherine Zeta-Jones either.”

“No. More like Porky Pig.”

“I think having him mind your shop will increase your income.”

“I doubt it. An Anasazi pot is not an impulse purchase. I figure if they really want one, they'll come back when I'm there.”

“And if you're not there the second time, they might go somewhere else.”

“There is no somewhere else. If they want genuine ancient pots, I'm almost the only game in town.”

“But they might decide your shop being closed is the perfect excuse to buy that Porsche they've always wanted.”

“People who appreciate ancient pottery have too much class to drive flashy cars.”

“Let's make a wager. Track your total sales for the next month and compare it to last month. If sales are higher, it will be because Glad is keeping the shop open for normal business hours.”

Susannah loves wagers. Gambling is chancy, and you already know how I feel about taking risks. But wagering with Susannah is fun because the stakes are always wacky. In the most recent wager, the agreement was that she had to keep her car if she lost, and I had to take it if I lost.

I said, “If he sells one pot, that would be higher than last month, so that's not a fair test.”

“Okay, you figure out how to test it. I'll figure out what to bet. And we'll have a small test this Thursday. You'll be gone all day. We'll see if Glad makes a sale in your absence.”

“I'm not going anywhere Thursday.”

“You are. You just don't know it yet.” She flashed that mischievous smile she does so well, only one side of her lips curled up and the opposite eyebrow raised. “Thursday is the day they let visitors go to the Trinity Site.”

“We already talked about that. There is no way I could leave the road and drive to the Oscura Mountains without being spotted.”

“I agree. That's why I'm going with you.”

The mischievous smile gave way to the knowing grin.

“What's the plan?”

“I drive. At some point, I pull over and you jump out. You scurry into an arroyo and make your way to the ancient ruin. I continue on to Trinity Site. I hang around there all day, then pick you and your new pots up on the way out.”

“Would that give me enough time?”

“If we enter when they open at eight, I can drop you off by eight fifteen at the latest. I'll have to pick you up by one forty-five to make it back to the gate by two when they close it. That gives you five and a half hours. Let's call it five because we don't want to cut it too close. It's four miles from the road to the place you showed me on the map. Your ankle seems to have regained most of its strength, so you should be able to cover that in less than three hours round-trip. That leaves you almost two hours to dig.”

“Wow, you have it all planned out. But that's a lot of driving for you, and I might come up empty.”

“Not knowing is half the fun.”

“Okay. When do we leave?”

“Two a.m.”

“Two a.m.?”

“A line forms at the gate long before they open. We need to be at the front of it.”