"Crew-cut," you say. "Rangy guy. Mid-thirties. Tattoo on his left forearm."

This jogs her memory. "Oh, yes. Arnold Post. I remember. He came and bought pots." Anna Elk Moon remains bent over her wheel. "Barely even looked at them. My three most expensive. I still have her check if you want to see it." The Pueblo potter is reluctant to take a break from her work, but she does, getting up to fetch a shoe box full of papers. You examine a personal check signed with a flourish, "Arnold Post."

Even in your short time in Santa Fe you've heard of Anna Elk Moon, one of the Southwest's most celebrated artists. "Investment buyer," she adds with uncompromising derision. "He kept asking about value, like he was planning to turn right around and sell them. I was going to kick him out, but the woman talked me out of it."

A row of painted pots is drying in a sunlit window and you're fascinated by the combination of modern and ancient designs. You're about to ask the price of a small one, just in case you win this week's lottery. And then the doorbell rings.

Anna goes off to answer it, leaving you alone. Immediately you recognize the voices. Glen Treater and Helena Hiss. Hiding by the doorway, you listen. It's a short but interesting visit. Glen has apparently brought back the three pots and wants to return them.

The artist refuses, throwing in a few insults for good measure. In her own way, she's just as hard as the Taos bookie. It strikes you that someday Anna's hard-nosed attitude will get her into trouble. But not today. "You and your friend begged me for those pots," she says, sticking a finger in Helena's face. "Look, I'm sorry he's dead. But if you want your money back, you're going to have to sell them on your own. This isn't a department store. I don't do returns."

You move to the studio window and see the Explorer in the driveway. Glen and Helena gently replace the three pots into the rear then stand by the passenger side and talk. You ease open the casement window.

Helena's voice is cold and clear. "Look, Glen, you got what you wanted. You're out of the partnership. The whole New Mexico operation is yours. I don't think you need to nickel and dime me for a few things Arnie bought during his last days on earth."

"A few things?" Glen shoots back. "We're talking over two hundred thousand..." Then he reconsiders. "All right. We'll consider it your severance package. I guess I can afford it. Hell, I'll even pay you a bonus if you stay with me for a year. Help me keep the L.A. operation. What do you say?"

Helena refuses, even when he offers to make her a partner. "No. I want out," she replies. "It's a dirty business, Glen. For all we know, it killed Arnie."

Glen snorts. "The business didn't kill Arnie. The man lived dangerously. He antagonized Nabokov. He screwed over customers. Hell, he picked up hitchhikers. Even I don't do that."

Helena blanches and seems a little shaken. "He felt sorry for them. And he liked the conversation. Look, Glen, just drop me off at the inn. I want to pack up and get away from here."

As they're getting into the Explorer, your cell phone rings. You instantly crank shut the casement window and answer the call. It's Rebecca Orlando back at the station.

"I checked up on credit cards and deposited checks. Arnold Post was a busy man. American Express says he spent more in those two days than he normally did in a month. Cash advances. Art works."

"Right. So, a lot of people knew this guy was a rich tourist spending tons of money." Suddenly Santa Fe is filled with a hundred new suspects.

"Airline tickets," she continues.

You stammer. "He bought airline tickets?"

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