“He dresses well, too,” I noted.
“After Mr. Claiborne passed away, I never for a moment thought I’d ever be involved with another man.”
“That was a long time ago. I’m certain he would want you to live your life to the fullest.”
Her eyes teared up. “He told me that on his deathbed.”
I fumbled for my handkerchief, but she picked one off a stack of them she had for sale and dabbed her eyes.
“I have enjoyed Morgan’s attention. I’ve enjoyed the company of a man again. Not that I don’t always enjoy your company, Mr. Schuze, but I mean – well – the company of a man in the romantic sense.”
“I understand,” I said.
“I will miss that,” she said. She smiled at me.
“You turned him down,” I said, not as a question.
“I did.”
“Then there’s still a chance for me.”
When she stopped laughing, she said, “I do declare I love your sense of humor.” She hesitated for a moment then said, “I always enjoy your flattery, and although we both know that’s all it is, please don’t stop.”
35
Susannah was full of suggestions that evening regarding our plan to solve Segundo Cantú’s murder, and she sounded disappointed when I told her we might not have to do that.
“Why, Hubie?” she said poutily.
“Because Layton is petitioning the court to throw out the charges against me.”
“On what grounds?”
“On the courthouse grounds, I suppose. Where else would he throw them?”
“Groan.”
“Sorry, but I’m in a giddy mood. The crime lab tested Cantú’s pilsner glass and found my DNA on the rim of the glass.”
“So what? You already admitted handling the glass.”
“That’s why my fingerprints were on it. But the DNA on the rim didn’t come from my fingers. It came from my saliva.”
“Which means you drank from that glass.”
“Exactly. And that validates the story I told Fletcher, that I went to Cantú’s just to do an appraisal and had a glass of beer.”
She was getting excited. It wasn’t as good as solving the murder, but at least it was solving a sort of mystery. “And he was alive and well when you left.”
“Well, alive anyway. Turns out he was far from well. According to Wilkes, Cantú had metastasized melanoma and had only a few months left to live.”
“Wow. That makes the murder even more intriguing, but let’s get back to your situation first. Drinking from Cantú’s glass doesn’t prove you didn’t poison him. Maybe you were thirsty, put some water in the glass, took a sip, and then put the poison in and gave it to Cantú.”
“I suppose it could have happened that way, but my story is more probable. Since they have no motive and no witnesses, the glass evidence is just too weak and circumstantial.”
“What about the appraisal fee being taken back? That could be a motive.”
I shook my head. “First, twenty-five hundred is hardly enough to murder someone for, but even more importantly, they don’t even know about that.”
“You didn’t tell them about the missing fee?”
“I told them nothing, sweetheart,” I said in my best Bogart imitation.
“Not even close,” she said.
We were running low on salsa, so I waved to Angie and she brought another bowlful.
“I have more good news. Miss Gladys spurned T. Morgan Fister.”
“Spurned?”
“Yeah. He proposed to her and she turned him down.”
“I know what ‘spurned’ means. It just sounds so old-fashioned.”
“She’s an old-fashioned woman.”
“That she is. Did she say why?”
“No. She said she had enjoyed his company and was going to miss having romance in her life.”
“That’s sad, Hubie. But at least it tells us something important.”
“She knew he was a flim-flam man?”
“Yeah. She probably wished he hadn’t popped the question and they could have just gone on dating.”
“That would be my guess.”
“Maybe she’ll find someone else.”
“I told her I was still available.”
“What about Izuanita and Dolly.”
“I’m available for them too.”
“Cad.”
“Now there’s an old-fashioned word.”
36
Martin’s cousin, Kennedy, had given me two large butcher-paper wrapped pieces of a dead deer. As you may have guessed from that description, I am not fond of venison. I do, however, know one man who can make it not only edible but quite tasty, so the next morning I was in the Bronco with the deer parts as passengers.
I was glad to finally get them out of my refrigerator. They weren’t spoiling – they’d been there only three days. But they were spoiling my appetite, and it’s awkward to fish around the fridge for a beer with one hand while holding the door open with the other and your head canted away so you can’t see what’s in there.
It was a beautiful morning with just a faint scent of irrigated land in the air. I drove down the south valley until I reached the small adobe on the unnamed dirt road and found Emilio waiting for me.
“Bienvenido, Señor Uberto.”
“Buenos dias, Señor Sanchez.”
“Consuela waits for us in the garden.”
We carried the meat with us around the house and placed it on a large wooden table. Emilio went inside to bring coffee while I greeted Consuela.
“You look good,” I told her.
“I pray to the Virgin,” she said and crossed herself. “And of course I have a good husband,” she added impishly.
We chatted for a while, and I began to wonder if Emilio had to roast and grind the beans before brewing the coffee. When he finally arrived, I understood why it had taken so long. He was carrying a large ceramic bowl with an aromatic slurry of ground ancho chiles, brown sugar, apple cider vinegar, fresh crushed oregano, corn oil, ground cumin, freshly pounded cloves, and a couple of heads of rough-chopped garlic. It’s called adobado, and an old tennis sneaker left in it long enough would be tasty after grilling. It works even better with pork, and it makes venison taste almost as good as beef.
Along with the bowl, Emilio had brought an old wooden-handled knife, and he sat sharpening it on a stone as we enjoyed our coffee. After he’d given me a refill, he began slicing the venison expertly into long strips. After the meat was separated, he broke the bones with a hammer and threw them into the sauce along with the meat so that the marrow would deepen the flavor.
“The meat must remain in the adobado overnight, Uberto. But after it is grilled tomorrow, I will bring some to you.”
I smiled at him. “That is why I brought it to you.”
“It seems like all the men in my life can cook,” Consuela said with a pleasant smile.
Despite her assessment of our cooking skills and our offers to display them, Consuela insisted on preparing lunch. Even over the strong scent of the adobado, my nose had already informed me there were roasting peppers in the oven. Emilio and I stayed on the patio while Consuela peeled the poblanos, shredded the quesadilla and the asadero, beat the egg whites to stiff peaks with a hand whisk, stuffed the poblano chiles with the two cheeses, dipped them in the egg whites, and slid them into a shallow pan of hot lard. She turned them once deftly, and then removed them to a paper sack to drain.
Chiles rellenos are not on the approved list for heart patients, but so far as I know, I’m in good health, so I had three of them. Any damage they did to my body was offset by the good they did for my soul. We talked and ate and drank, Consuela hot tea, Emilio and I cold Tecates.
As I left, Consuela pressed a bag of chile-roasted pecans into my hand, and I felt like a kid as I bid them goodbye and headed back to the city.
37
I arrived back in Old Town a little before four, parked in the alley, and went i
nto my living quarters through the back door. Then I went into my workshop and looked through the peephole into the shop.
Why do I have a peephole from my workshop into the shop? Because if I walk out into the shop and someone is peering in, I have to open up. But if I peek through the hole, I leave my options open. If the person looks like a buyer, I open. If they look like browsers, then they don’t have to know I’m on the premises.
The people I saw that afternoon were neither buyers not browsers. They were demonstrators, and they were carrying placards that said, “Immigrants Deserve Justice.”
I thought it was bad luck they’d selected my shop as the location for their demonstration, but when a reporter stationed herself in front of my logo and started doing a ‘stand-up’ with her partner aiming a portable camera at her, I realized I was the target of the demonstration.
I couldn’t figure out why they would picket me, and I didn’t want to ask for fear of having the microphone shoved into my face while I stared into the camera like a deer in the headlights. So I snuck out the back way and down the alley to the Plaza. I took The Book, as I had come to think of it, with me and planned to read until it was time to go to Dos Hermanas.
It was a perfect Albuquerque afternoon – an infinity of blue sky and a light dry breeze, surprisingly cool with the scent of piñon in the air. Actually, the scent of piñon was from my cologne. I found a shady place and started reading. I made a valiant effort, passing my eyes over the same paragraphs hoping for some insight. None came. But five o’clock did, and I stuck The Book in the inside chest pocket of my jacket and went to meet Susannah.
I had decided to tell her Chris was gay. Then, while sitting in the plaza, I started having second thoughts. Maybe I shouldn’t use the word ‘gay’. Maybe he was bisexual. Maybe I should say he’s either gay or bisexual. Then I realized that if Chris were bisexual, he still might be interested in Susannah. If so, should she know that he made a pass at me? I had no idea what to think. By the time I got there, I’d decided to say nothing.
She ordered our drinks when she saw me coming across the plaza, and they arrived just as I did. We exchanged greetings, and the salt-tinged first sip was on my tongue when Susannah said, “I wonder if Chris is gay?”
I spewed the liquid onto the table and went into a coughing spasm. Then I grabbed a napkin and started cleaning up as she asked me if I was O.K.
“Just went down the wrong pipe,” I lied.
“What do you think,” she asked.
“I think I’ll be fine.”
“I mean about Chris.”
I put a chip into my mouth and shrugged.
“I’ve seen him four or five times and he’s never so much as held my hand,” she complained.
“Would it bother you if it turned out that Chris is gay?”
She thought about it while she munched a chip. “I guess not.”
“You wouldn’t be disappointed to pass up someone so handsome and charming?”
“Not if he’s not interested in romance.”
“Oh, he’s interested all right.”
“How would you know?”
I took a deep breath. “Because he made a pass at me.”
“No way!”
“What? You think I’m not good looking enough for Chris to make a pass at me?”
“But you’re not gay.”
“I guess he didn’t know that.”
“What did he do?”
“He kissed me,” I said sotto voce.
“What?”
“He kissed me,” I said again slightly louder.
“I can’t hear you, Hubie,” Susannah said impatiently. “Why are you whispering all of a sudden?”
I took a pen out of my pocket and wrote “He kissed me” on a napkin and passed it over to her.
She read it and looked up at me. “On the lips?”
“Not so loud,” I pleaded, and she started laughing.
“Did you like it?”
“Shhh.”
She laughed some more and it was contagious, so I started laughing too.
When we finally stopped, I told her about the protest in front of my shop.
“A protest?”
“Yeah. Several people are marching, carrying signs, and chanting slogans in front of my shop.”
“What were they chanting?”
“I couldn’t make it out, but the signs said, “Immigrants Deserve Justice.”
“Huh?”
“Maybe they have me confused with that other guy.”
“Which other guy?”
“You’re the one who told me about him – Segundo Schuze.”
She laughed and said, “I see you’re not too worried about it.”
There was a long silence and then Susannah said, “Thanks for telling me.”
“Well, it was the first time anyone ever staged a protest directed at me.”
“No, silly, not about the protest. Thanks for telling me about Chris.”
“Oh.” I hesitated briefly. “I should have told you sooner.”
She waved it off with her free hand. “I’ve never been in that situation before – at least so far as I know – and neither have you, but it worked out fine. And it is sort of funny.”
“I guess.”
She gave me one of those smiles. “Was it a French kiss like with Lupita Fuentes?”
I angled my elbows out and rested the back of my hands on my hips. “I don’t kiss and tell.”
Then I violated that pledge by rehashing my Sunday evening with Dolly. Maybe I subconsciously needed to reassure myself – or her? – that I was straight. Predictably, she thought it was romantic that I would date someone I went to high school with.
“But I didn’t even know her in high school,” I pointed out.
“That’s even better. Two ships that passed in the night. Then the currents of life brought you back together many decades later.”
“Not many decades – less than three.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“Slightly less,” I said.
“You know what I think, Hubie? I think you saw each other in high school and don’t remember. But something stuck in your mind. That suppressed memory is what guided you back to her house on Saturday to invite her on a picnic.”
“I didn’t go there to invite her on a picnic. I went to her house to ask if it was O.K. for Geronimo and me to have a picnic under the trees by the irrigation canal. She just misunderstood.”
“Of course she misunderstood. Who goes on a picnic with a dog?”
In less than half an hour, Susannah had spun the picnic and the Sunday dinner into an epic romance, and I have to admit I enjoyed her version more than the reality. And who was to say she might not be right? I decided to call Dolly when I got home and ask her on a date.
38
My call to Dolly was delayed because the demonstration in front of my shop had grown from three or four to perhaps a dozen people, and they were louder and more enthusiastic. The signs also had new messages, saying things like, “Schuze is Innocent,” “Stop Police Harassment,” and “Another Press Mess?”
The group seemed more like revelers than dissidents. They appeared to be college kids, and they were being led by a handsome young man with olive skin and dark hair hanging down in ringlets around his baby-faced head, and.... What the devil was Tristan doing in this demonstration?
After the television cameras stopped rolling, Tristan sent the revelers home and explained that Judge Aragon had dismissed all charges against me that morning, and that’s what sparked the initial demonstration.
“I don’t get it,” I said. “The signs were about immigration. Why picket me? I don’t have anything to do with immigration. I never even thought about it until Sunday night when I had dinner with my high school history teacher, Frank Aguirre, and he started talking about it.”
“One of your high school teachers is still alive?” he asked playfully.
“Amazing, right? And even more amazing is t
he reason I had dinner with him – his daughter and I had a date.”
“It’s a little late to be buttering up a teacher by dating his daughter. Immigration is a hot topic these days. What did your ancient historian have to say about it?”
“He didn’t say much about the current debate. He wrote a dissertation about how U.S. immigration policy between 1864 and 1893 affected the labor market of that era.”
“I can’t wait until the movie comes out.”
“You think they were picketing me because I had dinner with Aguirre? Maybe he’s involved in immigration politics.”
“No, they picketed you because Segundo Cantú was an immigrant.”
“But I didn’t even know that.”
“And the demonstrators probably didn’t know you didn’t know that.”
“How did you know it?”
“I asked them. When I heard about the demonstration, I came down to see if you needed help, but you were gone, so I pretended to be interested in joining the protest, and they explained that Cantú was an immigrant from Mexico, and that was why the charges were dropped. They said if you had killed someone born here, you’d still be in jail.”
“I didn’t kill anyone born anywhere.”
“I’m just telling you what they told me.”
I looked at that baby-faced kid. “So you came to help me out.”
He smiled and shrugged.
“Then when I wasn’t here, you organized a counter demonstration.”
“It was fun.”
“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” I said.
“Aw, shucks.”
“Speaking of your help, wait right here for a minute,” I said and went out to the alley and came back with his garage opening wizard.
I handed it to him and said, “I don’t know if you can use this thing or any of the pieces in it, but I don’t want it around here.”
“You sure you won’t need it again?”
“Positive.”
“Did it come in handy?”
“More than you know.”
“More than I want to know?”
The Pot Thief Who Studied Einstein Page 16