The Pot Thief Who Studied Georgia O'Keeffe by J. Michael Orenduff Page A

the casserole in a bag made from gingham and embroidered with an image of the gazebo in the plaza. I don’t know what gingham is made from, but it must be a sturdy fabric to hold a ceramic plate, a glass baking dish in a cozy warmer and a thermos of sweet tea.
    The fact that she can carry such a load is the basis for my assessment of her odds against an intruder.
    Although Miss Gladys’s concoctions are seldom on the approved foods list of the American Heart Association, some of them are surprisingly tasty. This one was not. I know this is almost un-American, but I do not like pasta with its slimy texture and cardboard taste. The only reason people think they like it is because it’s usually slathered with marinara or some other misuse of perfectly good tomatoes.
    â€œJust look at that,” she said, her blue eyes sparkling. “The spaghetti is the exact color of a pie crust and the mozzarella topping looks like buttercream frosting.”
    â€œMaybe I should save it for dessert.”
    She laughed at my ploy to avoid eating the pie and poured me some sweet tea. The fact that I was able to choke it down with a smile is testament to my fondness for Miss Gladys.

12
    T he indigestion started only minutes after Miss Gladys departed. I was beginning to think Wolf Brand Chili must be named after its main ingredient.
    The Old Town Guild was having one of their dreaded Business After Hours events at La Placita. I walked to the southeast corner of the plaza and crossed the street into the eatery where Susannah works the lunch shift.
    Despite the fact that I rarely attend these events, my name tag sat on a table next to those of the other no-shows. I pinned it to my jacket and headed for the hors d’oeuvres table, where I found the perfect remedy for spaghetti pie—pico de gallo, a proper use of the noble tomato. I spooned some onto a plate, grabbed some tortilla chips and stepped into the line for the cash bar.
    A man fell in line behind me and said, “Hello. I’m Glad.”
    â€œAbout what?”
    â€œNo, that is my name, short for Gladwyn,” he said, pointing to his name tag, which read Gladwyn Farthing.
    â€œI’m Hubie,” I said.
    â€œYour name badge is wrong.”
    I looked down to see if I had picked up the wrong tag.
    â€œNo, that’s my name—Hubert.”
    â€œI meant you have it in the wrong place. You should pin it on your right lapel.”
    â€œI’m left-handed.”
    â€œDoesn’t matter, does it? You still shake with your right hand, which means you should have your tag on the right because that’s the side people see as they shake your hand.”
    Now I remembered why I don’t attend these things—inane conversations.
    As you may have guessed from his name, he was English. He looked to be in his sixties. He sounded like a character in Downton Abbey but looked like one in Looney Tunes; namely, Porky Pig. Pursed lips, pink skin and a blunt nose.
    â€œThanks for the tip about name tags,” I said, hoping thusly to bring our chat to an end.
    â€œDoesn’t matter you have it on incorrectly. I already knew who you are.”
    â€œOh?”
    â€œI’m told you may have commercial space to let.”
    I was waiting for him to finish the sentence when it dawned on me that he was using let the way we use lease .
    â€œI do have a vacant space, but I don’t have it listed.”
    â€œI didn’t get the information from an estate agent. I got it by asking about. Have you any interest in letting it?”
    Letting it what? I wondered.
    My shop and residence are in an adobe built by Don Fernando María Aranjuez Aragon in 1683. At some point during its 333 years of existence, it was divided into three parcels. I own the east third. Miss Gladys owns the west third. I lease the middle third from Benny Orozco, who is descended from Don Pablo Benedicion Verahuenza Orozco, who bought the building from its original