The Pot Thief Who Studied Georgia O'Keeffe (18 page)

47

W
hen Sharice told me she was preparing moules à l'Indienne, I flashed back to the gastric episode I'd experienced at Chuy's Mexican Mariscos.

I learned the few French words I know from working in a restaurant and reading cookbooks, so “moules”
struck fear in my innards.

The scent of fresh-baked bread filled the condo. I watched Sharice line up ten small ceramic bowls containing mussels, minced shallots, crushed garlic, sliced ginger, chopped cilantro, salt, pepper, ground coriander, champagne and something that looked like the runt of a carrot crop. The table held the crusty bread and the bottle of Gruet from which the champagne in the bowl had come.

“I like the way you have all the ingredients ready to go.”

“Mise-en-place,” she said.

I also knew what that meant from my restaurant days, but did I want my French limited to culinary terms?

“Should I learn French?”

She took her hands off the counter and clasped them behind my head. She brought her lips close to mine. “You planning on continuing to have your wicked way with me?”

I nodded.

“Then learning a bit of French would be good.” She pulled me to her and kissed me.

“
C'est bon
,” I said when she finally let me come up for air.

I suggested delaying dinner and putting Benz on the balcony, but she didn't want to leave the mussels out too long. I couldn't argue with that.

“Why did you throw that one out? It looked fine.”

“It was open.”

I told my stomach to relax. The cook had everything under control.

She sautéed the shallots and ginger in a deep pan. Then she grated the carrot runt into the pan and added the garlic. Just as the garlic began to scent the room, she poured in the champagne and turned the heat to high. She added the coriander, salt and pepper. When the steam began to rise, she tossed in the mussels.

I was a bit alarmed by how soon she took them out, but they looked and smelled great. She ladled them into bowls and sprinkled them with cilantro.

We ate them with the crusty bread. Except for when I get a breakfast sandwich at the Grove, tortillas are my bread. Of course, I never eat mussels, and I didn't know there was a fish called arctic char. My food horizon was expanding.

“What was that orange thing you grated into the pan?”

“Turmeric.”

“Isn't that a poem by Edgar Allan Poe?”

“No, that's ‘Tamerlane.' He wrote it when he was a teenager.”

“That probably explains why the meter was so bad. I remember reading it. So where have I heard the word
turmeric
?”

“At an Indian restaurant?”

“There are no Indian restaurants. There's a place called Pueblo Harvest Café inside the Indian Pueblo Cultural Center on Twelfth, but it isn't really Native American food. It's what they call Native-fusion. It's good, though.”

“I meant Indian as in India. They use a lot of turmeric.”

After dinner we did what I had wanted to do before dinner. All thoughts of pots vanished.

Then we played Scrabble while nibbling on Cocopotamus New Mexican Green Chile Caramel Truffles and drinking Gruet, both made right here in Albuquerque. Take that, France and India.

Benz was distracted by the empty mussel shells he was batting around. Although Sharice had cleaned them, I suspect the scent was still enticing.

She racked up eighteen points with
klaxon
.

I put
ind
to the right of her
k
and scored nine.

“A four-letter word? That's the best you can do?”

“Nine points isn't bad for only four letters.”

“Five of those were from my
k
.”

“I could have done a longer word, but this one reminded me of you.”

She giggled. “You hoping for a second romp?”

“Of course. But you
are
a kind person. And courageous as well.”

She cocked her head to the right and asked me why I said that.

“It took a lot of courage to show me your scar and to tell me about your past.”

“Or lack thereof,” she said, and we laughed.

“And you're kind because you did both of those things for the same reason—you wanted to spare me the shock of discovering them while we were in flagrante delicto.”

“You're sexy when you speak Latin.”

“You wouldn't think so if you heard Father Groas and me talking in it.”

“Anyway, you're right. I didn't want you to have a heart attack the first time we had sex.”

“I was willing to risk it.”

“So why are you saying all these nice things to me? Are you going to propose to me again?”

“So you
did
notice?”

“It's not something a girl would miss.”

“And what did you think?”

“The first time didn't count. You were much too excited to be rational.”

“You're the one who met me at the door naked and dragged me into the bedroom.”

“And the second time, you couched it as a joke—offering to make me a citizen.”

“You didn't answer either time.”

“This is my first ever courtship, Hubie. I'd like to prolong it.”

48

S
he left early the next morning for work. I slid over to her side of the bed and drifted back to sleep in the cocoon of her warmth and fragrance.

When I awoke an hour later, I went to her kitchen. A brief study of the coffee roaster, grinder and brewer confirmed it was beyond my skill level.

I bought a coffee at the Flying Star on Silver and drank it while I walked home.

Diego showed up around eleven carrying a box, which he placed on my counter. “This is a present for you from Ms. Po. She would like to speak with you.”

“I'll get a coat and tie.”

“That won't be necessary, Mr. Schuze. She awaits you in the car.”

I followed Diego into the street. He held the rear door of the car open for me. When I was seated, he closed the door and walked over to the gazebo.

The “car” turned out to be a Lincoln MKZ, trimmed with polished wood and smelling of leather. Its backseat was higher than a normal car's, making it comfortable for Ms. Po, who sat across from me on the spacious rear bench. She looked very much as she does in that throne of a chair in her house.

There was a box on her lap.

“My father had a Lincoln when I was a small girl. It was the only car in our village. It was called a Zephyr.”

I made a mental note in case I ever got those letters in Scrabble. Twenty-three points would impress Sharice.

“I have not heard the word
zephyr
for many years. It is a wind, is it not?” she asked.

“It is.”

“Confucius says, ‘When the wind blows, the grass bends.'” She folded her hands on her lap and looked down. “I too bent, Mr. Schuze. Mrs. Kent admired the pot you sold to me. So I offered to sell it to her. I hope you are not displeased.”

So maybe she was going to clear up the mystery of the pots.

“I am not displeased. I was happy you had the pot. You understood its hidden beauty. Mrs. Kent is like you, a person who will treasure the pot. So I am now happy that she has it.” I decided to get the unpleasant part out. “Regarding the new pot you asked me about—”

She lifted one hand slightly. “It did not seem to me like the first one.”

I nodded.

“Diego procured it at my request. I wanted to spare him from my concern. When I asked you about it, it was clear you saw it as did I.”

She looked back up and smiled at me. “I hope you will approve of my new one.”

She lifted a pot from the box. I felt lightheaded. Although the humidity was 7 percent and the Lincoln's air conditioner was running, I started sweating.

“It's marvelous,” I heard my voice say.

She smiled. She motioned to Diego. He walked to my side of the car and opened the door. I swung my feet out and hesitated, wondering if I could stand.

The pot in the box on Faye Po's lap was the one I'd dug up in the cliff dwelling and then reburied in a dune on the day the Trinity Site was opened for visitors.

Opening the box on my counter was anticlimactic. It was my fake.

49

I
turned the sign to
CLOSED
and retreated to my kitchen table. Figuring out the movements of the pots was more important than selling pots.

I made a crude map with dots for the White Sands Missile Range, the Inchaustigui Ranch, Spirits in Clay, the Kent residence, the Po residence and the Edwards residence. Then, as the saying goes, I connected the dots. Red lines for the pot from the ranch, blue lines for the pot from the missile range and green lines for the fake. But first, because my brain just works that way, I calculated how many different combinations and permutations there could be.

Two hundred and sixteen if you assumed that one of the pots always had to be at one of the locations. But that assumption is flawed—they might have all been at the Edwardses' at one point for all I knew. So that raised the possibilities to 648.

I think. To tell you the truth, I was losing interest in the project, so I didn't think it through. It wasn't going to work. No amount of diagramming would solve this puzzle.

Susannah had left the brochure from the missile range. It was next to the stack of unpaid bills. I read the message about the Memorial March being moved north for this year. It was funny in an officious way. One passage said, “Because of the move north, travel from the south gate to the starting point will take longer than normal. Plan on arriving at White Sands Missile Range by 4:00 a.m. It will be dark when you arrive.”

So it's dark at four in the morning. Who knew?

I looked at the map and could sort of estimate where I had left the trail and gone out on my own to find the spot where I had buried the pot.

The back page had pictures from the range. The strange little obelisk marking the Trinity Site. A herd of oryx. The McDonald Ranch House, where the world's first atomic bomb had been assembled.

I remembered grousing to Susannah that the federal government had made a hole in my state by confiscating over three thousand square miles of land. Of course, the landowners were the real losers. All I lost was a chance to prospect for pots in the Oscura Mountains. They lost their livelihood.

In 1982, rancher Dave McDonald loaded his pickup with his niece Mary, his Samsonite suitcase, a thirty-day supply of groceries and two .30-30 rifles. They drove into the missile range, reoccupied their family's former homestead and posted signs telling the US Army to keep out. The army wisely declined to confront McDonald and his niece. The standoff ended when two members of New Mexico's congressional delegation—Sen. Harrison Schmidt and Rep. Joe Skeen—met with the McDonalds and agreed to hold hearings on their complaint that the government had shortchanged them when they paid compensation for taking their ranch.

The McDonalds had received $60,000. The property was later evaluated at over a million and a half.

I looked again at the McDonald Ranch House. Even in its newly restored condition, it hardly looked like the headquarters of a $1.5 million ranch. Although it did have a swimming pool.

Sort of. Actually, it was just a concrete cistern.

I remembered pictures of the scientists who were working on the bomb in 1945 taking a break from the desert heat to swim in that cistern.

Of course! That's where I had seen it. I opened one of the books I'd read about O'Keeffe and found the letter her friend Rebecca Strand had written to her husband—the photographer Paul Strand—while the two women were living in one of Mabel Dodge's guesthouses in Taos. The letter was dated June 1929:

This afternoon, G. and I put on our bathing suits, connected the hose, and washed the Ford. Much shrieking with laughter and it came out shining like a new button.

The Ford was a Model A purchased by O'Keeffe. She named it
Hello
. I suspect the car washing was the day before they left on a tour to see more of New Mexico. O'Keeffe had written about the places they visited.

I couldn't solve the mystery of the pots, but I could solve the mystery of Susannah's putative O'Keeffe painting.

I called her and told her to come by my place after her lunch shift.

And to bring the canvas.

50

S
usannah was incredulous. “Georgia O'Keeffe drove to the missile range?”

I shook my head. “It was 1929. There was no missile range at that time. She decided she wanted to see more of New Mexico, so even though she didn't know how to drive, she bought a Model A Ford. She was in Taos, living in one of Mabel Dodge's guesthouses. By all accounts, she was the worst student driver in history. She scared cattle, endangered pedestrians, drove into ditches and hit several trees.”

She furrowed her brow. “But Taos is high desert. There aren't many trees.”

“There were more before she started driving. But she evidently got the hang of it and set out on a long trip, which included White Sands.”

“But since it was before the missile range, they just went to the National Monument?”

“It was also before the monument, which wasn't established until 1934.”

She gave me one of her mischievous smiles. “So that was the year they trucked in all the white sand?”

“Yeah. They needed something to attract tourists. Guess where she stayed?”

“Knowing her, she probably slept in the car.”

“She did on some nights. But she also spent some time at the McDonald Ranch.”

“Was that a dude ranch or something?”

“Hardly.” I handed her a picture of it.

“So she stayed in a plain house in the middle of nowhere. What is that … Wait!”

She unrolled the canvas. “That cistern is the one in this painting.”

“Which proves it's a genuine O'Keeffe.”

“It's cool that you found the thing she put in the painting, but how does that prove it's genuine?”

“We know the painting was done in part near Ghost Ranch because it was found there, and also because the cliffs in the background of the picture are there. But the painter must have also seen the cistern at the McDonald Ranch because it's also in the painting. We know Georgia O'Keeffe was in both places. But the odds that any other painter visited both those places are a million to one.”

“I'm not sure about that, Hubie. I agree about the odds, but I've never heard of a painting's
provenance
being established by the artist being in the locales pictured in the painting.”

“
Provenance
is a region in the South of France, right?”

She rolled her eyes. “No, that's
Provence
.
Provenance
is the pedigree of a piece of art. And the normal way of establishing it is to trace it from its current owner all the way back to the artist and ideally to have documents like bills of sale to verify everything.”

“But my argument that she's the only one who could have painted it makes sense, right?”

“It does,” she said without conviction.

She stared at the canvas the way you stare at something when you aren't really looking at it. She was thinking.

When she finally looked up, she was wearing that big rancher-girl smile. “The normal way of establishing provenance may not work for this canvas, but it will work for the wild square dance of the Tompiros, including all the do-si-does and changing partners.”

“Huh?”

“Here's what you're going to do, Hubie. You're going to establish the provenance of each of the Tompiros. Start with the fake.”

“Okay. That one's easy. I made it. Jack Haggard took it from me at gunpoint. Diego bought it from Haggard and took it to Faye Po. She brought it back to me.”

“You have any documentation?”

“I can do better than documentation. I was an eyewitness to the pot's creation, its theft by Haggard, its presence in Faye Po's niche and its being returned to me.”

“What about the part where it went from Haggard to Diego?”

“Obviously I didn't see that. But Haggard took it from me, and Ms. Po said Diego procured it for her, so it must have passed from Haggard to Diego.”

She shook her head. “A provenance is like a chain, only as strong as its weakest link. Maybe Haggard sold it to X and X sold it to Diego. Except he didn't, because he kept the one he got from Haggard and sold a worse one to Diego. So you can't prove the fake you got back is a genuine Schuze because you don't have a complete
provenance
.”

“I don't need one. I know my own work when I see it.”

“Maybe. But Sotheby's wouldn't auction it off as a genuine Schuze unless they could verify the Haggard-to-Diego link.”

I liked the fantasy of Sotheby's auctioning a genuine Schuze. That would cure my money woes. Of course, even if it were a genuine Schuze, it's still a fake.

“What about your O'Keeffe canvas? It doesn't have a complete provenance either.”

“So?”

“So you don't have to give it to the museum.”

“Professor Casgrail said I'd have to give it to them only if they said it was genuine.”

“Which they can't say because there is no paperwork for it.”

“But the people at the museum are experts. They know an O'Keeffe when they see one.”

“And I'm an expert on my own pots. So if I need documentation, so do the museum experts. For all they know, O'Keeffe traded that painting to Baltazar's grandfather for some goat cheese. He hated modern art and threw it away. It belongs to Baltazar not only because he found it but also because he is the heir. He gave it to you, so it's yours.”

“Goat cheese?”

“No? How about he gave her some of those skulls she painted? The point is, we don't know the provenance of that canvas. So instead of giving it away, you should sell it.”

“The museum is not going to buy something they think they already have a claim to.”

“I'm not talking about the museum. So far as we know, they have no knowledge the thing exists. You should sell it to me.”

“You want to buy … Oh, of course. She said if she couldn't buy a pot, she would buy an O'Keeffe. You want to give it to Sharice.”

“I do. But first I need enough money to buy it and also pay my bills. So I need to figure out if I can salvage any profit from this bizarre Tompiro caper.”

“I told you it was a caper. But let's get back to your task. Give me the provenance of the pot from our ranch.”

“I dug it up. It sat in my shop for twenty years. I sold it to Faye Po. I have a bill of sale. She sold it to Mariella. Given that her husband is a lawyer, she no doubt also has a bill of sale.”

“Now, that's a solid provenance. Let's go to the second one, the one from the missile range.”

“I know the two ends of the chain. I dug it up and reburied it in the sand dune. Ms. Po now has it. What happened in between is known only to God, whom I picture having a bit of a laugh and wondering if this sleight-of-hand trick is enough to make me a law-abiding citizen.”

“Okay, do the second fake.”

“There's only one fake.”

“But you saw one at Po's place and one at the Edwardses'.”

“I saw the one at Po's place on Tuesday. Remember we talked about how it got there and what to do about it that night with Sharice, Tristan and Martin?”

“And Glad.”

“He came later. I think he got in at the end of the discussion. The next day, I took Sharice to the Cinco de Mayo party. Then later that day, the Edwardses arrived to thank me, and I went to their house and saw the fake. So it must have moved from Faye Po to the Edwardses that morning. They came to thank me right after they got it. Then that night I had dinner with Sharice, and the next day, Faye Po got the fake back from the Edwardses and delivered it to me.”

Susannah is the only person I know who continues to look intelligent with her jaw hanging open. “You have got to be kidding me. What possible explanation could there be for the fake going back and forth like that in a three-day span?”

“It's not any crazier than a pot I buried in a sand dune at the missile range showing up in a box in the backseat of Faye Po's Lincoln Zephyr!”

“The Zephyr is the old one.”

Susannah is an expert on old cars.

“Look,” I said. “There are only two possibilities. Either the fake went back and forth like I said or Carl Haggard made a copy of my fake. Or maybe had someone else do it.”

“That's three possibilities. You have the Edwardses' number?”

I took Donald's card out of my wallet, and she took her cell phone out of her purse.

“Is this Dotty Edwards?” Brief pause. “My name is Stella Ramsey from Channel 17. Yes, that Stella Ramsey. Oh, thank you. I'm doing a feature on rare Native American pots, and I understand you have a Tompiro in your collection.” Another pause. “Excellent. If you're willing, I'd like to call you again after I talk to my producer about scheduling an interview and photo session with you. Great. You'll be hearing from me again soon.”

“You sounded just like her.”

“She's on TV every day, Hubie. Everyone knows what she sounds like. As you could tell from my conversation with Dotty, they still have their fake.”