Blue Flower Red Thorns

by Ted Clifton

  “I understand not trusting cops, believe me. But the Santa Fe Police Department is run by a good guy. You should call him and tell him what you just told me. It’s very relevant, and I’m sure they’ll keep it confidential for now. I can’t withhold information from the police. I live here, so they can make my life very uncomfortable if they think I’m not playing straight with them.”

  Bente looked thoughtful. “I guess I should call. What’s the police chief’s name?”

  Vincent took out his phone and gave Bente the chief’s name and number. She stood, smoothed her clothes, thanked Vincent for his help, and left. Clive Walton was going to move from a bit player in this investigation to a lead role before long.

  Vincent went to his computer and searched for a number for Trent Taylor, but didn’t find one. He Googled the man—not much. Some background professional stuff. He had an MBA from New Mexico State University in Las Cruces. Nothing else leaped off the screen. Then he saw a search result for a Taylor Art Gallery in Las Cruces, clicked on it and did an online search of state records. He found the name of the owner, a Gloria Taylor, of Mesquite, New Mexico. Maybe Trent’s mother? His wife, ex-wife, sister—Vincent couldn’t be sure. For all he knew, it might be no connection at all.

  He packed his few belongings into the Mustang and went to find Jerry and Cindy. He gave them the good news—also bad news—about moving in with Nancy, and they all hugged. It felt like he was leaving home for the first time. Cindy actually cried a little.

  “Tell Rick, anytime he needs some help with picking up or dropping off passengers, just call. I’ll always help when I can.”

  Jerry smiled. “You better get going before we all break down.”

  “Guess so. I know I’m probably going to see you as much as I did before, but you both should know how grateful I am. You really helped me when I needed it. I won’t forget that.” He shook Jerry’s hand and gave Cindy another hug, then left. He hoped mom and dad wouldn’t be too sad, and he promised himself he’d call often.

  As he drove—violating both common sense and the law—he called the chief and told him what Bente had said about Clive Walton.

  “Do you think he was suggesting that he’d take over the existing gallery?” the chief asked.

  “The way she described the conversation, it seems clear that’s what he was suggesting. If he was going to leave Anna and start something on his own, I think he’d have worded what he said very differently.” Vincent waited on the chief’s next question, but none came. “Do you happen to have a contact number for Trent Taylor?”

  Another moment of dead air. “No. We’re looking for him, too. Apparently, he was staying at one of the downtown hotels. He doesn’t have a home in Santa Fe. We should be able to get a number pretty quick. Call back later, and I’ll let you know what we found.”

  The chief disconnected in a way that seemed abrupt. Vincent was on his way downtown to the Crown Bar to see his favorite bartender when his phone vibrated. “Vincent Malone.”

  “Mister Malone, this is Trent Taylor. I need to talk to someone about Anna’s death. Can you meet me?”

  “When and where?”

  Taylor specified the La Fonda bar in an hour, then disconnected. Vincent thought about calling the chief back, but decided that would be carrying civic duty too far.

  To Vincent the La Fonda was emblematic of Santa Fe. The colors, the music, and the general hubbub seemed to represent all the qualities, good and bad, of New Mexico’s capital. It would never have been one of Vincent’s hangouts during his drinking days—way too bright, colorful, and cheerful for the old Vincent to feel comfortable. The places where he’d spent time drinking in those days tended to be dark and moody, with jazz or blues playing in the background while people drowned their sorrows. La Fonda was for tourists, so everything was happy and upbeat.

  He found an empty spot at the bar and ordered a beer. He was a little late, and looked around for Taylor, but didn’t see anyone who looked like him. He hadn’t met the man, but was fairly sure he’d recognize him when he saw him. He was on his second beer when Taylor showed up.

  “How about we go to a booth?” Taylor suggested that in a conspiratorial, nervous way, looking around in a manner that suggested he was concerned about being seen. He was a very plain man, the sort of person people would describe as ordinary—the sort of person who remains invisible until, one day, he explodes.

  “Sure.” Vincent followed him to a more secluded location, and slid onto the bench-style seat. A waitress appeared and took their order—Diet Coke for Taylor and another beer for Vincent.

  “I didn’t kill her. Should have a long time ago, but I didn’t. Can you help me?” Taylor sounded stressed. His eyes looked wild—or maybe he was on something.

  Vincent hesitated. Taylor had called him—why? “I guess you mean you didn’t kill Anna? Has someone accused you?” He was tiptoeing, trying not to push the wrong button and have this guy blow up.

  Taylor opened his mouth to answer just when the very efficient, and annoying, waitress reappeared. She did her thing and left. Nothing of any consequence had changed, but the interruption seemed to put Taylor even more on edge. “No, nobody’s accused me of anything. I’m a nobody—people don’t even notice me. That bitch would have been flat broke—maybe even in jail—if not for me. But she treated me like dirt. Never said ‘thank you,’ or ‘good job’—nothing. Just ignored me, like everyone else.”

  “How long did you work there?” Vincent wanted to keep him talking, but he also needed to know some things, not just to listen to the guy rant.

  “Five years—five very long years. I was hired by Howard, not Anna. He was hard, but he knew what he was doing. It was different when he was alive. But Anna, she thought she knew everything. She didn’t know squat. All she knew was how to spend Daddy’s money and complain. After he died, everything went to hell.”

  “Why didn’t you quit?”

  “Yeah, I should have. And actually, I did quit, right when Howard died. About a month after Howard had gone, I told Anna I thought it was time to move on. She begged me to stay, said she needed my help. I believed her, but it was all lies. She needed me to take care of things, all right, but no more money for me—just more work, while she proceeded to run the business into the ground.” Taylor took a sip, and looked around nervously, again. “Plus, all I know is the gallery business, really. It’s not easy to find jobs in this industry, especially without a good reference. And there was no doubt that if I’d quit, she would have made sure I couldn’t get another job.”

  Everybody had a story, even the invisible people. “Do you know who killed Anna?”

  “I don’t know, but my guess is that the crazy Dutch artist did it. She and Anna were always fighting, and her stupid manager would call almost every day, yelling about the money we owed them. They may have been all smiles when the customers were around, but it was obvious they hated each other.”

  “Where were you that night, after the reception at the B&B?”

  Taylor gave him a dirty look. “What, you think I killed her? I didn’t even see the bitch. I was waiting at the gallery for Clive to have the paintings brought back. It was part of the security procedures—which, I might add, I put in place. The paintings had to be returned and inspected before they were secured. That’s what I did, then I left. But I know someone’s going to accuse me sooner or later, because I’m a nobody, right? So, go ahead and hang me for what these nutcases do to one another.”

  People might accuse him simply because he’s so bloody annoying. “Why did you call me?”

  Taylor looked confused at the question. “I needed to talk to someone. I heard about you from Clive. He doesn’t like you much, but it sounded like maybe you were kind of independent. I can’t go to the cops. So, I called you.”

  None of that actually answered the question. “What did you need to talk about?” There was a long pause, and Vincent wondered if Taylor was rethinking this whole meeting.

  “I heard
you’re an investigator, and were looking at everyone. I figured sooner or later you’d look at me. It’s nothing to do with Anna’s death—but if someone starts to look, there are some things that might seem a little odd. I don’t trust the cops here. If they find out about it, they’ll find a way to railroad me. Guess I wanted someone else to look at it and see that it wasn’t related to Anna’s murder.” Taylor started his nervous search of the room again. If he wasn’t guilty of something, he was sure doing a good impression of someone who was.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Vincent said. “I’m a private investigator. I work for the law firm representing Ilse De Vries. If you have information about this crime, you need to talk to the police. If you tell me anything about the crime, I have to tell the police. I can’t hide evidence or any relevant information.” He paused to let that soak in. “Before you tell me anything, my advice to you is to hire a lawyer, and tell them what you were going to tell me. That way, it’s a privileged communication, protected by the client-attorney relationship. Anything you tell me, I can’t withhold.”

  Taylor sipped his Coke. It was obvious he wanted to tell someone what he knew, but now he wasn’t sure about going ahead with Vincent. “Okay. Well, thanks. Excuse me, I need to go to the washroom.” He got up and left.

  Vincent knew he wasn’t coming back. He called Tucker and gave him an update, including the meeting clearly just adjourned.

  “Have any idea what he’s talking about? His big secret?”

  “I don’t know for sure, obviously, but I’d guess it has something to do with money. He’s a disgruntled, underappreciated employee who handled the company’s cash. The first guess is that he was stealing, and now he’s worried about the police finding that out and jumping to the conclusion that he killed Anna because she found out.”

  “Strange that he would call you.” Tucker was always direct.

  “Hey, I’m a charming man. Good company, too. Maybe he was looking for stimulating conversation.”

  “Yeah, right.” Tucker hung up.

  Bobby watched as Ilse slept. She looked small and vulnerable, but he knew—maybe more than anyone—that she could be dangerous. He didn’t believe she’d killed Anna, but he couldn’t be sure.

  He’d awakened the night Anna was killed, and Ilse hadn’t been in the room. He’d been concerned about her after the ugly exchange at the reception, and when he saw she wasn’t there, he’d gone looking for her. He didn’t find her, but did discover his car was gone. He’d thought about calling her, but wasn’t sure whether it was the right thing to do, and resisted an urge to call someone and report her missing. If she turned out to be fine, she’d probably be furious. He went back to the room and waited. He didn’t know when she’d left, but it was almost an hour after he awakened that she returned. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know where she’d been, so he’d pretended that she woke him up when she came in.

  “Something wrong?” He’d acted drowsy.

  “No, everything’s fine. I just got a glass of milk. Go back to sleep.”

  The next day, he’d confronted her about it, and that was when she locked herself in the bathroom and tried to kill herself. They hadn’t talked about any of it since. Now, holed up in Durango, wondering if he’d done the right thing when he let her pretend like nothing had happened. He knew he shouldn’t bury his head in the sand, but he’d done it, anyway.

  He went to the hotel lobby, got coffee, some tired-looking donuts and a Denver newspaper, and returned to the room. He glanced at the front page of the paper, and when he didn’t see his picture, breathed a sigh of relief. What a strange life.

  Ilse stirred. “Do I smell coffee?”

  Bobby brought her a coffee and a couple of donuts. “Donuts are a little shopworn, but they’ll help get you started.”

  Ilse giggled. “I’m so hungry, these look wonderful.” She grabbed one and took a big bite. “What’s the plan today?” She actually seemed to be enjoying herself.

  “Maybe a big breakfast downtown. Saw a place yesterday that I thought looked interesting.” He was rewarded with a big smile. “Next, I think we contact the attorney Malone recommended.”

  “Why?” Ilse clearly preferred to ignore everything and continue to pretend nothing was wrong.

  “This isn’t going to go away. We need advice, and I think Malone is being straight with us. I think we can trust him, more or less.” Even assuming she hadn’t done it, he knew she needed help dealing with the situation.

  “I don’t think I trust anyone but you. Maybe we should just stay in the room and wait.”

  “Ilse, I know you want this to all just disappear, but it won’t. We need to deal with it, now, before it gets worse. If you don’t want to talk to this attorney, fine, but then we should go back to Denver and contact someone else. Or get in touch with those lawyers in Albuquerque. It’s the smart thing to do.”

  “Okay, okay. I know you’re right. I just wish I’d never gotten you involved in my messed-up life.”

  “I want to be involved. And I’m not going away—not unless you tell me to. Let me help, okay?”

  She smiled. “Maybe we should call in a little while.” She grabbed his hand and pulled him onto the bed.

  “Sure, I know who you are,” Younger told Bobby over the phone. “Malone gave me a heads-up that you might call. Why don’t we meet at a restaurant downtown?”

  “Great. We haven’t had breakfast yet.”

  “The Lone Spur Café is on Main Street. It’s easy to find, and has the best breakfast in Durango. Say in about thirty minutes?”

  “We’ll see you there. How will we know you, though?”

  “Big, ugly guy with intelligent eyes.”

  Bobby laughed. “Great, see you in a bit.”

  He went into the bathroom where Ilse was getting ready. “Guy sounds like he should be entertaining at the very least. For some strange reason, even over the phone, he made me more comfortable that we’re doing the right thing.”

  Ilse gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Let’s hope so.”

  Vincent’s phone vibrated.

  “Malone.”

  George Younger filled him in on the phone call and his plan for breakfast. “What do you want me to tell these people?”

  “Give them your best, most honest assessment of their situation. Don’t pull any punches. I believe they’re both innocent, but they’re in a lot of trouble. Ilse’s hired the Hill firm to represent her regarding financial issues related to her paintings, but someone else might be better for anything about the murder. They need a good criminal attorney, and that’s you. Also, I might not have mentioned this, but they’re both rich—try not to let your glee show too much.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Hungry or not, once a person walked into the Lone Spur Café, the aromas insisted they order something immediately. The atmosphere was rustic, and promised wonderful food. Bobby and Ilse looked around for the self-described large, ugly man. They soon spotted a big guy, though he wasn’t very ugly, talking with several others. He saw them, and headed their way.

  “Hi. You must be Bobby and Ilse. I’m George Younger. Come on in—we have a booth in the back.”

  As they headed that way, several people waved or said hello to George, who clearly was well known at the Lone Spur.

  “Thanks for meeting with us.” Bobby was polite, Ilse reserved.

  “No problem. I usually eat breakfast here, and it’s nice to have company. When Vincent called and said you might be in touch, he told me you’re both involved in the arts. But he didn’t get specific. Can you tell me a little more about that?”

  Bobby gave George some background about himself and Ilse, who still hadn’t said a word.

  “Holy cats, a world-famous artist right here in Durango.” George moaned at himself inwardly. Could he possibly sound more small-town?

  Ilse smiled. “ ‘World-famous’ is probably a bit of an exaggeration,” she said, picking up a menu. “I love this place. Wha
t do you recommend?”

  “Either the southwest omelet or the cowboy benedict. Either way, it’s a lot of food, but I guarantee it’ll taste great. Might have to take a nap if you eat the whole thing, but I’m all in favor of naps.” In favor of naps? Unbelievable. He was completely at ease defending bikers, confronting cops in court, and even standing up to judges when they ruled against him, but here he was, acting like a teeny-bopper fan meeting a rock star. The simple fact was that, in his element he could be fearless, but outside it he sometimes wasn’t sure of himself, and it could put him off balance.

  Ilse and Bobby chuckled. They ordered from a friendly and efficient waitress. Anticipating their meals, they stayed away from the business at hand for the moment, talking about Durango history, the hotel, how long George had lived there, Bobby’s graphics business, and local matters in Denver. Soon the food arrived, and no one was disappointed.

  “I have a question.” That came from Ilse, who was becoming more comfortable with George. “Can I hire more than one attorney?”

  “Sure. You can hire any number of attorneys to help you in the same matter, or different attorneys for different legal issues, or a whole truckload. You can also fire attorneys anytime you want. Are you thinking about the Albuquerque firm you hired?”

  Ilse nodded. “Yeah. I was just wondering if hiring you canceled that, or if we need to tell them about you?”

  “You can hire me without firing them or notifying them, but I’d be a lot more comfortable if you let them know I’ve joined your team. I think it’s always best to let everyone know what’s going on, even if each attorney’s dealing with what seems to be a distinct matter. Sometimes there’s overlap you don’t expect. And you don’t want your lawyers keeping secrets from each other, and maybe doing you harm in the process.”

  Ilse looked at Bobby and nodded. Bobby grabbed her hand and squeezed. “I have something we need to discuss, but I’d like to talk to Ilse first. Could you give us a few minutes?”

  “Of course. I have a couple of calls to make.” George got up and walked away.