The Pot Thief Who Studied Edward Abbey by Orenduff J. Michael;

Author:Orenduff, J. Michael;
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Media Mystery & Thriller
Published: 2018-03-13T13:49:41+00:00

27

The first thing Sharice said when she got home was, “The condo is sparkling, but it looks like all the dirt you scrubbed off ended up on your fingers.”

“That’s not dirt. It’s ink. Whit Fletcher came by about an hour ago and fingerprinted me.”

“Why?”

“The police want to see if my prints match some they found.”

She frowned. “Found where?”

“He wouldn’t say. But he did say it has to do with their investigation of Ximena’s death.”

“Why would they think the prints are yours?”

“Someone connected to the case suggested the prints might be mine.”

“That’s weird. And scary.”

“Yeah. And I don’t have any answers. Which makes sense, because I don’t know what the questions are.”

“The first question,” she said, “is what does ‘connected to the case’ mean?”

“Someone in the art department? Someone at the event where the plaster was removed?”

“Did you know any of the people at the event other than art department people?”

“No.”

“Then it has to be someone from the department, probably Aleesha.”

“Why would she do that?”

“She filed a groundless compliant against you, Hubie. Anyone who would do that might also try to sic the police on you.”

“She came back to class and agreed to help in the scholarship plan.”

“Is she still pursuing the EEO complaint?”

“I don’t know.”

Sharice went to the refrigerator and returned with a bottle of Gruet and two coupes. I used to prefer flutes, but the coupes are fun because their wide, shallow shape allows the bubbles to tickle your nose. I needed tickling.

After she filled the coupes she said, “How can Aleesha think you’re prejudiced against her? After all”—she flashed her Klieg-light smile—“you are living with moi.”

“She doesn’t know that.”

“Tell her.”

“I can’t do that.”

“You don’t want your students to know you’re living in sin?” she said, and giggled. Then she said, “Seriously, why not tell her?”

I sat my coupe down on the glass coffee table. “When I first met Charles Webbe, he was undercover. I thought his name was M’Lanta Scruggs, pot scrubber at Schnitzel.”

“M’Lanta? Why do black Americans give their kids such weird names?”

“It wasn’t his real name.”

“I know that. But he must have chosen it because he knows that some black parents pick weird names.”

“I’m sure he knows that. He knows everything. But he chose it because he thought it was funny. Anyway, he was explaining the menu to me. When I asked him how he knew so much about Austrian dishes, he said, ‘You think ’cause I’m black, I don’t know nothing?’”

“How did you respond?”

“I pointed out that my question had nothing to do with color. I’m white and know nothing about Austrian food. Then he asked if I knew any black people. I said I dated a black woman named Sharice.”

“We weren’t dating then.”

“I know. But we did have lunch together.”

“Yeah. I was hoping it was a date, but you seemed to think it was just lunch. What’s so funny?”

“I was hoping it was a date, but you seemed to think it was just lunch.”

“Drat. Look at all the time together we missed because of tiptoeing.

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