The Pot Thief Who Studied Pythagoras

The Pot Thief Who Studied Pythagoras

4.2 10
by J. Michael Orenduff
     
 

View All Available Formats & Editions

First in the lively, laugh-filled series featuring a New Mexico pottery dealer with a side job as an amateur sleuth.
A dealer of ancient Native American pottery, Hubert Schuze has spent years combing the public lands of New Mexico, digging for artwork that would otherwise remain buried. According to the US government, Hubie is a thief—but no act of

Overview

First in the lively, laugh-filled series featuring a New Mexico pottery dealer with a side job as an amateur sleuth.
A dealer of ancient Native American pottery, Hubert Schuze has spent years combing the public lands of New Mexico, digging for artwork that would otherwise remain buried. According to the US government, Hubie is a thief—but no act of Congress could stop him from doing what he loves. For decades, Hubie has worn the title of pot thief proudly. Outright burglary, though, is another story.
But an offer of $25,000 to lift a rare pot from a local museum proves too tempting for Hubie to refuse. When he sees how tightly the relic is guarded, he changes his mind, but the pot goes missing anyway. Soon a federal agent suspects that Hubie is the culprit. After things take a turn for the serious, Hubie knows he must find the real thief quickly, or risk cracking something more fragile than any pot—his skull.
The Pot Thief Who Studied Pythagoras is the 1st book in the Pot Thief Mysteries, but you may enjoy reading the series in any order.

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9781480458529
Publisher:
Open Road Media Mystery & Thriller
Publication date:
01/28/2014
Series:
Pot Thief Mysteries , #1
Sold by:
Barnes & Noble
Format:
NOOK Book
Pages:
302
Sales rank:
15,045
File size:
1 MB

Read an Excerpt

The Pot Thief Who Studied Pythagoras

A Pot Thief Mystery


By J. Michael Orenduff

OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA

Copyright © 2009 J. Michael Orenduff
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4804-5852-9


CHAPTER 1

The two best things about being a shopkeeper are that your income isn't limited to some corporation's idea of what a salary should be, and you get to set your own hours.

The two worst things are that you don't have a salary to depend on every month, and ... Well, it doesn't really matter what the other worst thing is if there's no money coming in.

Which was my situation in April. My shop is in Albuquerque's Old Town, and the last time any money had passed over the counter was during the Christmas rush. Which was actually more of a Christmas mosey since December had seen no more than a dozen shoppers and only one buyer. He carried away a beautiful antique Santa Clara pot that had been on my shelves for a dozen years, and I felt a twinge of regret when I handed it to him.

Of course my remorse was salved somewhat when I saw Hubert Schuze in the "pay to the order of" line of a fifteen-thousand-dollar check.

The fifteen thousand had paid the light bill and kept food on the table and champagne in the fridge, but it was now nothing more than a fond memory. So I was happy to see a potential customer lingering by my door.

At least I hoped he was a customer. The way he was looking furtively up and down the street, he might have been a hold-up man.

Or maybe he just didn't want to be seen entering a disreputable establishment.

Not that I think of my business that way. It's not an opium den or a Frederick's of Hollywood, but I do have a bit of a reputation in some circles.

He eventually worked up the courage to step inside, whereupon he removed his fedora, introduced himself as Carl Wilkes and gave me a card that read New World Antiquities.

"Sounds like an oxymoron," I commented.

He offered a half smile. I offered him a cup of coffee and a warning about my brewing skill. It had been steeping for hours, but he drank it unflinchingly. No milk, no sugar.

Wilkes wore a dull green flannel shirt buttoned all the way up to his neck and tucked into taupe gabardine trousers. The hat was moleskin. He was so thin and his clothes so neatly pressed that he could have been wearing the outfit during the pressing.

"If you're looking for old pots," I said to him, "you've come to the right place."

"Are you perhaps familiar with this one?"

I looked at the photograph he handed me. "Yes, I know it. A beautiful piece, a thousand years old and almost perfect except for a small chip in the rim. If you want to see it, it's on display at the Valle del Rio Museum at the University of New Mexico."

"I've already seen it," he said. "What I want to do is buy it."

"Well, you could make them an offer I suppose, but I don't think it's for sale."

He shook his head slowly. "I've tried that. Museums seldom sell things from their collections. But you're in the business of selling pots, so perhaps I can buy it from you."

"If I owned it," I assured him with a smile, "I would sell it to you gladly."

He looked straight into my eyes. "Perhaps you could acquire it."

I stared at him across the counter while I thought about that remark. Small arroyos laced his tan skin, and his thick beard was trimmed close to his face. The leathery skin pegged him around fifty, but perhaps he was only thirty and had spent too much time in the New Mexico sun. His dark, deep-set eyes gave him a shifty look until the warmth showed in his smile.

After thinking about it for a few moments, I gave the only response that came to me. "How?"

"I imagine there are ways," he said, "but that's not my concern." He glanced out into the street and then continued. "If I bought one of the pots in here today, I wouldn't ask how or where you got it. And if I were to come back in a few days and find a new pot in your shop, I wouldn't ask how or where you got that one either."

"Mr. Wilkes—"

"Call me Carl."

"Carl, are you trying to suborn a felony?"

The lines around his eyes lifted into another half smile. His eyes seemed liquid and lighter when he smiled. He said nothing.

"Suppose," I said, "I could somehow acquire the pot in question—legally of course—and offer it for sale. What price do you think it would fetch?"

"Twenty-five thousand dollars," he answered.

Now I was smiling, too.

In addition to selling traditional Native American pottery, I'm also a pot thief. I don't like the term, and I don't think it's a fair description, but that's what I am. At least that's what I've been since the 1980s when Congress passed the Archaeological Resources Protection Act extending the definition of thievery to cover buried pots on public lands. And who knows more about thievery than Congress?

Prior to that, it was legal to dig up old pots for fun and profit. Those of us who did the digging were called something a lot more exotic. We were known as "treasure hunters." It was an honest profession, even an honorable one. Most of what we know about the ancient civilizations of Mesopotamia, Egypt, Greece and Rome we owe to treasure hunters who unearthed their artifacts. If it were not for that most famous of treasure hunters, Howard Carter, Tut would still be under the desert sand, and his funereal loot would not be touring the world in all its splendor.

Selling old pots is quite lucrative providing you don't get caught digging them up, but that's only part of the appeal. The real reward is the thrill of the find, the sudden connection with the ancient past when you hold in your hands a pot that has lain unknown and untouched for a thousand years.

Carter said it best when, after years of searching, he got his first glimpse of Tutankhamen: "The youthful Pharaoh was before us at last. An obscure and ephemeral ruler had reentered the world of history."

Although I've never dug up anything as significant as an Egyptian pharaoh, I have brought some beautiful pottery back into the world of history and profited handsomely from doing so. But the pots I sell to wealthy collectors are excavated from the ground, not stolen from museums.

I don't apologize for digging them up. They belong to whoever finds them, and I refuse to let Congress make me out a thief. It's more than just being denied the fruit of my labor as a digger, more than merely losing the benefits of my talent for reading the land and knowing where to look for artifacts. Sure I like the money, and there's nothing else I want to do to earn a living. But what's just as important—maybe even more so—is the spiritual connection I feel with those ancient potters. It's like reaching back through time. When I finally feel the cool smooth clay beneath the sand, I'm touching the hand of the potter.

I know why she was there, because I found my way to that same sheltered dune using knowledge of the land she possessed a thousand years before I was born. I'm holding the pot she took with her to carry water or gather juniper berries. When I find that pot, I find her, someone like me who knew the feel of wet clay between her fingers.

Taking a pot from a museum wouldn't give me that same thrill. I knew that. Someone else had already experienced the moment of unearthing. The pot in the Valle del Rio Museum was no virgin.

So what if the thrill wouldn't be there. Twenty-five thousand dollars can be thrilling in its own way, especially since it was April and I had neglected to set aside from last year's adjusted gross income the thirty-one percent now due to the Internal Revenue Service.

I also owed a penalty because my quarterly estimated tax payments weren't large enough, which is a ridiculous rule because it's impossible to estimate my income. I admit it's petty, but I was feeling frustrated and maybe a little sorry for myself. The same government that wants to ban me from making a living also wanted me to know in advance that I'd have a fifteen-thousand-dollar sale at Christmas and send them the tax before I collected the money.

But there's no arguing with Uncle Sam. I owed the tax and I owed the penalty. The twentyfive thousand Wilkes was proffering would more than cover both.

When he asked me to think about it, I said I would. He told me he would be in the Hyatt for the next two days and invited me to visit him after I had thought it over. What he didn't know was I had already thought it over.

I wish I hadn't.

CHAPTER 2

Thinking about the museum wasn't getting me anywhere. I even went so far as striking the pose—elbow resting on the knee, wrist curled back under the chin. But that made me think of Rodin, not pots.

So I gave up and walked down the street, across the plaza and over to Dos Hermanas Tortillería where my best friend Susannah and I can be found almost every evening unwinding from work with our mutual friend Margarita, the delightful daughter of Jose Cuervo.

Susannah's in her late twenties and unwinds easily from working the lunch shift at La Placita, which starts about ten in the morning for table set-up and menu review and ends about three when the dining room has been restored to some semblance of order. I'm forty-something and don't unwind as easily as I used to even though the only thing I was unwinding from was sitting behind the counter thinking about Wilkes and the museum.

We use the cocktail hour to talk about Susannah's bumpy road to love, her studies, my illegal treasure hunting and anything else that needs talking about. She was telling me about her day.

"Food coloring!" she almost shouted, her big eyes wide with disbelief. "Can you believe it?"

"Well," I replied, "you did say he was from Texas, and—"

"It was a rhetorical question, Hubert. And even Texans should know that blue corn tortillas come from blue corn. What kind of a restaurant uses food coloring anyway?"

I assumed that was another rhetorical question, so I just licked the last grains of salt off the rim of my glass and waved for a refill while Susannah continued to berate the customer who had asked her if blue corn tortillas had food coloring in them. I won't bother you with the whole story, but in the end he had cleaned his plate and she had put him in his place by pointing out that there was no blue residue anywhere to be found.

After she told me about the other interesting diners she had served that day, our second round arrived, and it was my turn. I told her about Wilkes' visit, and she asked if I intended to steal the pot.

"I'm not a thief."

"You steal pots."

"Well, technically. But that's just the government's view. In my mind, it's not stealing because the pots I dig up don't belong to anyone."

"Maybe the government's view is the one that counts. After all, they're the ones with the police."

"Good point," I conceded, "but there are few police wandering around the desert looking for treasure hunters. And even after you dig something up, who's going to call the police to report it?"

"Whereas a pot missing from the Museum would definitely be reported."

"Especially this one. It's one of only two intact Mogollon water jugs ever found."

"So that's why Wilkes is willing to pay twenty-five thousand for it?"

"Yeah, and it's obviously worth more than that. He probably has a collector he can sell it to, and I assume he plans a hefty markup."

She took a sip of her margarita and gave me her Mona Lisa smile. "I bet I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that if you had dug up that pot, it would be yours. So if you take it from the Museum, it will be like you dug it up and the Museum just served as the middleman. Am I right?"

She knows me better than I know myself.

"Something like that," I admitted. "I haven't thought it completely through. I do know this, though. If another pot hunter had found it, I certainly wouldn't entertain the idea of breaking into his house to steal it."

"Honor among thieves?"

I scowled. I think of myself as a decent person. If I see money fall from someone's pocket, I chase them down and return it. I've never seen a pot fall out of anyone's pocket, but if one did and I found it, I would return it. Of course, it would probably be just a handful of shards after the fall, but I wouldn't even steal another man's shards. But when I dig up a thousand-year-old pot, its rightful owner is long gone and obviously failed to bequeath it in his will. So I don't feel guilty about making it my own.

"Seriously," she continued, "I know you're a man of principle, but is a museum different from someone's house?"

"Maybe. It was the unholy trinity of professional archaeologists, museums and political correctness activists that got pot digging outlawed. And I'll tell you what I think of museums. They're places where—"

"Pots go to die," she said before I could.

"I guess I've told you that before?"

"Repeatedly."

"Well, it's true. What I object to is museums taking things out of circulation. Courtiers buried pharaohs with riches while the peasants lived like slaves. Today we put our valuables into museums instead of graves, but that helps the common man about as much as the gold in Tut's sarcophagus helped the Egyptian peasants. Buying and selling, goods changing hands, that's what makes an economy work."

"Spoken like a true shopkeeper."

"And proud of it. If Congress had given tax breaks to treasure hunters instead of criminalizing them, they could have added a few more percentage points to the gross national product, not to mention increasing what we know about the peoples of the past."

"That's why we have archaeologists."

"Right. Concentrating on one square meter on the edge of an artifact-rich site, their little brushes shifting a teaspoon of sand a day while some graduate student writes every move down in a spiral notebook."

I fumbled around for an analogy. "It's like the department of agriculture placing a fertile field off limits except to a handful of agronomists who are experimenting with micro lettuce while hungry people are barred from planting food crops."

"You're not exactly starving."

I shrugged. I felt better getting it off my chest. She caught the attention of our server, the lithesome Angie, and ordered a third round.

"Don't you have class tonight?"

Susannah is a perpetual part-time student at the University of New Mexico.

"It's a guest lecture on Frederic Remington. You can't face something like that on only two margaritas."

I drained my glass and asked why a psychology major would attend a lecture on Remington.

"Honestly, Hubie, sometimes I think you don't listen to me. I dropped psychology last semester. I'm majoring in art history now."

"Sorry. It slipped my mind, but now I remember."

Angie refilled our glasses, and Susannah asked her to bring more tortilla chips and salsa.

"The chips and salsa soak up the tequila. I'll be fine by seven."

"That's an interesting theory. Why did you choose art history?"

"The same reason I chose psychology—to meet guys. But all the guys you meet in psychology are psychotic. That's why they study psychology in the first place, to find out what's wrong with them. Did you know that?"

"Yes, I know that. In fact, I think I'm the one who told you that. Remember? When you told me you were going to switch to psychology? But you went ahead anyway, didn't you?"

"Geez, you sound like my mother."

"Sorry. I don't mean to be critical."

"Anyway, you're an artist. You should appreciate my new major."

"I'm not an artist. I'm a ceramicist. I make clay pots."

"That's art."

"Quick," I said, "name ten famous artists right off the top of your head."

"Let's see," she said and ticked them off on her fingers, "there's Michelangelo, Leonardo, Rembrandt, Vermeer, Van Gogh, Matisse, Gauguin, Picasso, Georgia O'Keeffe, and Andy Warhol."

"See? Not a potter in the bunch."

"Well, maybe you'll be the first one to become famous."

"I don't think so. Even if pots were art, I just make copies."

"But you do like art history."

"I do. And I admire you for exploring your intellectual horizons."

"I'm not exploring my intellectual horizons. I'm trying to meet a good man. To which I should say good luck or fat chance or something."

"Well, you're unlikely to meet one in art history. Most art historians are women, and the men—"

"I know. They're all gay."

"Well, maybe not all."

"The few I know are. And you're right—almost all art history students are women."

"If you knew that, why did you choose art history?"

"I know it now. I didn't know it then."

I leaned back in my chair and gave her an appraising look. "You know what I think? I think you did know it. I think you really are academically inclined, but you like to pretend you're in school just to meet men."

"Now you're going back to psychology. Let's order another margarita."


(Continues...)

Excerpted from The Pot Thief Who Studied Pythagoras by J. Michael Orenduff. Copyright © 2009 J. Michael Orenduff. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Meet the Author

J. Michael Orenduff grew up in a house so close to the Rio Grande that he could Frisbee a tortilla into Mexico from his backyard. While studying for an MA at the University of New Mexico, he worked during the summer as a volunteer teacher at one of the nearby pueblos. After receiving a PhD from Tulane University, he became a professor. He went on to serve as president of New Mexico State University.

Orenduff took early retirement from higher education to write his award-winning Pot Thief murder mysteries, which combine archaeology and philosophy with humor and mystery. Among the author’s many accolades are the Lefty Award for best humorous mystery, the Epic Award for best mystery or suspense ebook, and the New Mexico Book Award for best mystery or suspense fiction. His books have been described by the Baltimore Sun as “funny at a very high intellectual level” and “deliciously delightful,” and by the El Paso Times as “the perfect fusion of murder, mayhem and margaritas.”

Customer Reviews

Average Review:

Write a Review

and post it to your social network

     

Most Helpful Customer Reviews

See all customer reviews >

The Pot Thief Who Studied Pythagoras 4.2 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 10 reviews.
mikenasatt More than 1 year ago
Different environment, but Orenduff creates an American character to rival Gash's Lovejoy.
InspirationalAngel531 More than 1 year ago
Title: The Pot Thief Who Studied Pythagoras Author: J Michael Orenduff Publisher: Open Roads Media Mystery & Thriller Published: 1-28-2014 ISBN: 9781480458529 E-Book: B00HO12CTK Pages: 268 Genre: Mystery & Thriller Tags: Antiquity Sensual Level: Mild Overall Rating: Very Good Reviewed For: NetGalley Reviewer: DelAnne Hubie Schuze is a dealer in antiquities. Once he went and dug them up for himself and when the government made it illegal for individual amateurs to dig up and sell artifacts to the public. Since Hubie hated to part with his treasures he was in constant need of funds to keep his business afloat. When he was offered $25,000.00 for a no questions asked deal for customer who wants a rare pot from a local museum, he considers it then decides against it. The turns up stolen anyway and the detective assigned to the case is fixated on Hubie as the culprit. Then the deaths start and all fingers are pointed toward Hubie. Since no one believes he did not steal the pot or commit the murder it is up to Hubie to find the real thief and murderer. Filled with drama and suspense The Pot Thief Who Studied Pythagoras has many subplots that keeps you guessing at what will happen in Hubie's life. Hubie is more complex than he seems at first. Where once he seems shallow and self-centered he soon shows himself to have multiple layers including compassion. His knowledge could make him equal to most archeological professors. It did not take me long to grow to like him very much. The story kept my interest from the very beginning to the very intriguing end.
PoCoKat More than 1 year ago
I cannot think about pots and pot thieves without thinking about the amazing books of Tony Hillerman. Additionally, as a wannabe archaeologist, I enjoy reading about native American pottery and the ends with which people will go to acquire it. Orenduff's Pot Thief series of books combines archaeology with a dash of philosophy and mystery thrown in for good measure. I really enjoyed reading this book. It was very well written. The story was interesting. Professor Orenduff obviously is very well educated in the areas of archaeology and philosophy and brings his first hand knowledge to the story. This book is the first in a series by J. Michael Orenduff involving his pot thief, Hubert Schuze. The story had plenty of twists and turns. I loved the ending. I'm looking forward to reading the other volumes in the series.
RonnaL More than 1 year ago
THE POT THIEF WHO STUDIES PYTHAGORUS by Michael Orenduff was a great new find for me!!  Lovers of Laurence Block's Bernie Rhodenbarr mysteries will find this book pure joy!!  Hubert Schuze is a treasure hunter turned pot thief,  because of a new American law disallowing archeologists and other diggers from keeping things they find.  Hubert doesn't dig on Indian lands or private property, but he figures he's part of the public, so public land finds belong to him too!  He runs a pot store in New Mexico selling his great finds---and he might be tempted into more possible illegal actions that he justifies in his own mind.  This book is a humorous, intellectual mystery full of little gems about Pythagorus' life and theories.  Herbert and his friend, Susannah play off each other with great hysterical gems and intellectual  discussions while they have their even drinks.  Neither one are shy about sharing opinions about anything and everything either.  When Hubert is approached by a customer who offers him $25,000 to 'appropriate' an ancient pot from the New Mexico University museum, his past due tax bill temps him to consider the offer.  In the process,  he stumbles over a couple of murdered men.  Thus the story continues, ending in a fantastically fun and interesting conclusion.  
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
MareCT More than 1 year ago
Hubie Schuze is firmly in the top five of my favorite protags. He's charming, intelligent, dry, and above all he is interesting. This book delighted me from the start in spite of the slightly off-kilter premise of a "pot thief" being the good guy. Hubie truly is a good guy who not only does the right thing, but thinks his actions through in a very satisfying manner. The Albuquerque setting is a vivid enough to make the desire to visit a strong one and the only downside that appeared was the constant desire to indulge in a marquerita or a bottle of Grue. There is just something endearing about a man who will voluntarily read articles about Pythagoras while dodging nubile females and handling ancient pots. I would recommend this book to anyone who would like a brisk, entertaining, well-written, and engaging story.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Euclid More than 1 year ago
If you like New Mexico and a good tale with intriguing characters, Pot Thief is a great choice. By the way, the "pot" in Pot Thief refers to New Mexico Pueblo Indian Pots --highly valuable pieces of art-- and not to some illegal drug. Murder and mystery, good guys and bad guys are plentiful in a setting that exposes readers to both urban and rural New Mexico, with a bit of history, good food, good drinks, and a bit of Pythagoras thrown in for good measure. I look forward to the next Orenduff novel --due out in the fall.