From 
 The Pot Thief Who Studied Billy the Kid
      by
J. Michael Orenduff
 


Whit Fletcher  was born in Tucumcari in 1960. After graduating from Tucumcari High school where he made second team all-state as a defensive tackle, he joined the Army and trained as an MP at Fort Leonard Wood. He received an honorable discharge in 1981 and enrolled in the New Mexico Police Academy. He joined the APD in 1982, eventually working his way up to Detective First Grade in 1996.
 
So what have you been doing since the last big case?
Mostly trying to bust the drug dealers, but I’m getting to the point of wondering why we bother. If they ain’t back on the street in forty-eight hours, some other punk takes their place, and business continues as usual. Almost make me wish I was back in uniform. 

How did you become involved in this case?
I usually get involved with Hubert Schuze when he gets into hot water because of his pot stealing, but this time he actually called me. 

Tell us about this case.  
Hubert told me a guy he knew was looking for old pots and accidentally dug up a body. And not an old mummy. This here was someone recently died. Or was killed.  I say to him, “So you was out digging for pots and found a fresh corpse.”
    “It wasn’t me,” he says. 
    “Right,” I say.
    “It was a guy you know.”
    “Right.”
    “What’s his name?”
    “See, that’s the problem. He told me about finding the dead guy because he wanted the
police to know. But he doesn’t want to get involved because he wasn’t supposed to be digging in a prehistoric site. So I can’t give you his name.”
    “Okay, Hubert, I’ll play along. Where did this guy find the stiff?”
    “I can’t tell you that, either.”

Well, we went round like that for a few minutes, and I agreed to nose around and see if there was a missing person that might be the body Hubert claims he didn’t find. And because there could have been some valuable pots in that site, I figured maybe there would be a few bucks in it for me being helpful.

Was there ever a time during this case that you doubted those that you normally trust?
Nah. I knew Hubert was lying to me right off, but he’s done that before, and it don’t stop me from trusting him. He’s so bad at lying that it never fooled no one. And every time he and I scratch each other’s backs, money seems to end up in my pocket. 

How dangerous was it to solve this case? 
He’s put me in a few tight places before, but this time the risk was all his. All I did was run down all the missing persons from the area he’s been digging in and match one up with the facts as we knew them. It was Hubert who figured out what happened to the dead guy. Then he pulled another one of his stunts and decided to check on the murderer to collect evidence. Damn near ended up in the grave where he had found the body. 

Did working on this case affect you emotionally?
I guess you could say I was depressed for a while. I was hoping for half the money from one of them old Anasazi pots, but the bad guy who nearly killed Hubert had already picked the site clean. All Hubert could find was one lousy shard. That’s what they call a piece of one of them pots. Even a piece sold for a thousand bucks. 
 
How did this case affect your personal life?
Well, I’m a big fan on University of New Mexico football. And my half of the shard money was enough to get one of those flat screen TV’s, although the way the Lobos have been playing, I can hardly stand to watch ‘em.

Just to wrap things up, what happened to the guy who killed the person Hubert found?
Well they couldn’t make a murder charge stick because the dead guy was one of those  nuts who beat themselves with whips and even volunteer to haul a cross and be tied on  it. Sometimes they even get their hands nailed to it. Someone dies under those  circumstances, you can’t really say they were murdered.  When I told Hubert that he said, “Maybe most of them are nuts, but some could be saints. Before you criticize a man, you should walk a mile in his moccasins.”

    “That’s good advice,” I told him.
     “It is?”  he said. He seemed surprised that I liked his advice because he knows I don’t go in much for corny sayings like that.
    “Sure,” I said. “It’s  good advice because if he don’t like your criticism, there ain’t much he can do about it because you’re a mile away from him and he’s barefooted.”
 
But they did get the guy for kidnapping Hubert, so he’s in the State Pen. 
 
 
 Mike Orenduff grew up in a house so close to the Rio Grande that he could Frisbee a tortilla into Mexico. While in graduate school at the University of New Mexico, he worked during the summer as a volunteer teacher at one of the nearby pueblos. After
receiving his M.A. at New Mexico and his Ph.D. at Tulane, he became a  university professor. He went on to serve as President of New Mexico State University. He 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 his many awards are the “Lefty” national award for best humorous  mystery, two“Eppies” for the best eBook mysteries and the New Mexico Book of the Year Award. 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 Timesas “the perfect fusion of murder, mayhem and margaritas.”


 
 
 
 
 

from  Death of a Flapper 
 
  
             
Carny Brogan has recently opened his detective agency in Tin Pan Alley, his skills learned from his police chief father and friend, Detective Phil Spillman from the NYPD. 
             
The time is 1926, the heart of the Roaring '20s and what is known as the Flapper Era.  The case:  A missing persons caper involving a young woman by the name of Alice   Prado.

Carney, tell us about this case.           
As soon as Mrs. Lucille Prado came into my office, I figured she had  lost her way, that happens a lot in Tin Pan Alley; but when she started to tell  her story, about her missing daughter, I paid a little attention, more so when she showed me a photo of Alice, quite a looker. There was something about Mrs. Prado that struck me as honest and earthy, and I told her I'd take her case--but not to expect a lot of success.  Grateful for at least that much, she gave me a buck retainer, and I went to work. 
 
Carney, what makes your case so special?               
Little did I know that I would run into quite a bunch of characters, many  of them from the ranks of high society. I counted on some help from my inside source, Lt. Phil Spillman with the police department, and my friend, Bruno Kowalewski with the city morgue. In addition, I get the lowdown from another friend of mine, Woody Byrd, an ex-musician who combs the streets of the Bowery; and then there's Pops Dempsey, who owns Dempsey's Boxing Gym and who's always good for an odds-on bet.
             
I started with Alice's recent address, where I found her roommate, aspiring actress/dancer Sally Blair.  She told me Alice now went by the name of Arabella Germaine, a real party girl who enjoyed pearls, fancy champagne and even fancier guys. 
She had been seen in the company of playboy Robert Landon and his group  of spoiled, rich kids, including his sister, Regan. Their friends came with the cutesy names of Muffy, Frenchie, Tippy, Hoochie and Spiffy.  Plus, I had a lead on some art gallery owner, a fancy pants guy by the name of Victor Cathcourt.  Sure, he knew Arabella all right.  In fact, she had been his muse in more ways than one.
             
As I went along, I found a lot of inconsistencies in their stories, plus the kicker:  no one had seen Arabella since the weekend--at least not until she showed up in the morgue.  Now, as I looked down on that beautiful, pink angel--the girl who had been the life of the party--I knew I had to start earning that buck.
 
Has this case affected your personal life?             
You bet!  I guess you could say I fell in love with Arabella, at least the image of her that I had formed in my mind.  The high society kids called her "Angel" and I couldn't agree more with that appellation.  She was an angel, an ethereal creature, and us mere mortals had been given only a brief glimpse of such beauty and grace.
             
If that's not a hoot, Sally Blair, the aspiring actress/hoofer, keeps casting goo goo eyes my way, and my friend, Maeve Dempsey, wants to set me up with a friend of hers from the phone company, Harriet Mumson.
 
 What made this case hard to solve?             
Well, for one, everyone had an alibi, a lot of slick alibis by my count. The rich sure think they can get away with even such a paltry excuse as murder; but I persevered, if not for
Arabella, then for her parents who needed to know why their daughter had been left for dead on a grimy city street.  In the process, I almost got myself killed by a mobster named Slim Jim Morelli and his gang. So, I just have to sort all the clues while I share a drink with my friend Phil at Jerry's Gin Joint, a real cat's meow speakeasy.

 
 What have you learned from the case?             
Well, for one, women are sure strange creatures.  One minute I think I can trust them, and the next--well, I prefer not to say.  Although, I can tell you this:  I finally got over my
infatuation with the dead Arabella, and now I'm focused on Harriet Mumson who sent me violets while I was laid up in the hospital after a tangle with a couple of tough guys.  Harriet, or as I like to call her Pixie, just got under my skin for some reason--and who
knows?  Maybe we'll tie the knot someday...

Thank you for being with us today, Carney. 

 
             
Marva Dale is the author of the Death by the Decade Series, featuring a mystery during each decade.  "Death of a Flapper" is the first in the series, and she hopes the reader
will enjoy each story, filled with not only a murder or two, but with a bit of
comedic and romantic encounters as well.  Ms. Dale has also penned the historical family saga, "Far From  Eden: New World," the first in a series concerning the Traynor Family dynasty.  These books are available from Amazon and Barnes & Noble. For more information visit Ms. Dale's website at www.merrillspassion.info.