Blue Flower Red Thorns

by Ted Clifton

  Vincent waited a bit, but Francis seemed in a trance, so he tried to move things forward. “Tell me what happened. What was she doing that you found out about?”

  “Selling forged paintings again.” He laughed, glumly. “I couldn’t believe it. After all the grief the last time, when she did it by mistake, and now she was doing it again. But this time, she knew. It was greed. She hadn’t been fooled. She knew perfectly well they were forgeries. As part of my job I monitored the money as it related to total cash flow, but usually didn’t look at all the details. One month I did. What caught my eye were payments to the Taylor Gallery in Las Cruces. It was a lot. I knew Trent had owned a gallery down that way, but I believed he’d closed it years ago. At first, I thought, well, maybe it’s not the same Taylor. But I went online, and there it was. The place was filled with Trent’s mother’s paintings. He’d told me his mother was dead—he’d lied. Why on earth would Anna be buying paintings from Taylor Gallery? I started to track the sales. They were works by known artists. Not the most famous, of course, but well-known artists whose paintings sold for many thousands of dollars each. It didn’t make sense.”

  “When was this?”

  “Mostly over the last three years. But there had been hundreds of these paintings over the last year or two. It was a hell of a lot of money. Anna had paid Taylor Gallery over a hundred thousand dollars, and the paintings had resold for almost a million. Once I had the numbers, I knew something was wrong. So I confronted Anna. Of course, she just started yelling at me. Calling me names, saying I was a spy.”

  “When did you confront her?”

  “About four months ago. That’s when I should have stopped her. But after she yelled at me for what seemed like hours, she changed her approach. She told me no one had been hurt. After all, the buyers thought they’d gotten a bargain, and the forgeries were so damn good she didn’t think anyone would ever know. She just needed time to complete this show with Ilse, and she would retire. That’s when she said she’d leave the business to me. It’s also when she told me about her health problems. She said she would write a will leaving everything to me. She indicated she didn’t have any relatives and it would be what her father would have wanted. But if she didn’t die, she’d sell me the galleries. Said we’d work out a plan to transfer the galleries to me if the treatment worked. I started to rationalize everything. She needed the money to have an operation to save her life. And no one had been harmed. Plus, Clive and I deserved the business, since without Clive she would’ve lost everything, anyway. Right there, while she was still talking, I was already making plans about how we would do things, what we would change, and how we would turn the place into a real success. I agreed to keep quiet.”

  “Where was Trent getting those forgeries?”

  “His mother painted them. Part of my agreement with Anna was that Trent would never know I’d discovered what was going on. She was worried that he’d do something rash if he ever found out she was leaving the gallery to me. She said she’d handle Trent, so I never talked to him about any of it. Anna told me Trent’s mother had completely lost her mind, and that he could control her, and have her paint whatever he told her to. Apparently, she’d been a very talented artist at one time, and she still had the skills, so she could produce whatever you needed, if you gave her proper instructions. He would give her photos of paintings and, according to Anna, she would turn out these fantastic forgeries.”

  Vincent had to ask, “Do you think Trent killed Anna?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Anna had told me not long ago that Trent was pushing her to give him more money, that he was going to leave the country, and he needed cash. It was because of his half-sister. She’d found out that he’d been having his mother produce these paintings, and she’d threatened him. This is the same sister who went to jail for nearly killing him years ago, and he was really scared. Of course, Anna was absorbed in her own problems, with her health and with Ilse, and she told Trent she couldn’t deal with him right now, and that she was done with the stupid forgeries.”

  “So, what happened then?”

  “Then, on the day of the reception, he was making a big scene. I heard him clearly. He wanted money. She became angry, and told him she was sick of him, and that he was fired. And for some reason, she told him I was going to have the galleries after the show. She ordered him to leave. But he didn’t. Anna was so distracted, I’m not even sure she realized he hadn’t left. I think he killed her that night, either to get money, or just for revenge.”

  “Do you know where Trent is?”

  “No. Can you get Clive out of jail?”

  Francis was clearly having trouble staying connected to reality, but everything he’d said made sense. Trent had all kinds of motive, and now Vincent had a witness who’d seen him walking away from Anna’s car at the park. That seemed enough to get him arrested. Francis’s story was hearsay, so it wouldn’t be allowed in court unless there was a way to fit it into one of the narrow exceptions to the rule—as a declaration against interest, for example—but that didn’t matter at the moment. The goal right now, while the police were still investigating, was to persuade them that there was a more likely suspect than Clive or Ilse. There was no rule against the police using hearsay information— they did it all the time, and the rule only applied in court. If they followed it up, it might even lead them to evidence against Trent that could be used in court, making hearsay evidence unnecessary. Whatever else happened, there was certainly enough in what Francis was saying to focus the police attention on Trent as the likely killer, and that would be a step in the right direction.

  “Francis, you’re the one who can help get Clive out of jail. You have to tell the police chief the same thing you just told me. Can you do that?”

  “Will he come here?”

  “I think he’d probably agree to that.”

  “I’ll tell him everything I know, if he’ll come here. I’m not going to the police station.”

  “One more thing. Ilse said someone, a man, called her the night after the reception and told her one of her paintings had been damaged, and it was Clive’s fault. Do you know anything about that?”

  “Had to be Trent. Surprisingly, he was at the gallery when the paintings were brought back in. It was part of the security procedures he’d developed. He was supposed to inspect them in case there was any damage during transit. He got all excited and said one of the paintings was damaged, but Clive looked at it and said it was only the outer edge, and it was very slight, a minor ding that was easily repaired. At that point, he and Clive got into it. Trent was threatening Clive—said he was going to call Anna. Clive told him he should leave, or he was going to call the police. He told him he knew Anna had fired him, and what was he doing there, anyway? Trent kind of went crazy, yelling at Clive and calling him names. Then he just left. I don’t know where he went, but when we locked up, we could not find him in the gallery.”

  Vincent called the chief and gave him all he had, including the homeless eyewitness and the new information regarding Taylor being at the gallery that night. He told him what Francis wanted. The chief showed up within the hour with a stenographer and recording equipment. They sat in the dining room, where Francis told his story again. The chief gently questioned him for a few extra details, and took some documents Francis had that accounted for the payments to Taylor Gallery.

  Vincent, meanwhile, waited in the garden. The chief came out and took a chair.

  “I called the station. Clive will be released in a matter of a few hours. And, thank god. The jail people were about ready to kill his new attorney. Apparently, she’s been raising hell all morning about Clive being held illegally. Is she a friend of yours?”

  “Not exactly. Any leads on where Trent Taylor might be?”

  “Well, we were already looking for him, to question him. We got a report from the Las Cruces police that someone matching his description had been seen there, so my g
uess is that he went home. The police over there will probably pick him up soon, if he’s still in the area.”

  “Who gets charged now?”

  “Good question. I’ve got good circumstantial evidence pointing to Taylor for the murder, but first we have to find him. And it’s sure not an airtight case. Francis sure had a strong financial motive to want Anna dead, but there is no direct evidence. This forgery stuff is muddying the waters. It’s a crime, but it’s on Taylor and Anna Marks, at least so far as we know at the moment. Francis should have come forward and reported it weeks ago, but considering his mental state, I doubt the DA will do anything about it. Maybe Clive knew, and maybe he didn’t, but at best that’s obstruction, and that’s not a priority right now. For all I know, Ilse could still have strangled Anna, but I don’t have the evidence to hold her. And once she’s back in the Netherlands, we won’t have any way to realistically pursue it. Not very satisfying, but the only hope for some kind of justice is if we can find Taylor.”

  “I know your official position would be not to tell me the evidence you have against Taylor but we’re the only ones here, and I have been cooperative.” Vincent was curious and tried not to beg. He even smiled.

  The chief paused and starred at Vincent. He chuckled and nodded. “We’ve got his phone records and video of him inside the gallery that night. He called Anna and then later called Iles. What Iles has given us about the call matches the time that Taylor called her number. About twenty minutes before that he had called Anna’s number. What we don’t have is any real proof of what happened. There’s no ‘smoking gun’ video or conclusive forensics. Without a confession we might not be able to prove anything.”

  Vincent sighed. “Yep, crime fighting is a tough business.”

  “Why are you going to Las Cruces? You’re not a cop.” Nancy was frowning. It sounded to her like a lot of risk for no reason.

  “I know. But this feels unfinished to me. I don’t expect to bump into Taylor, but I need a bit more closure than just a shrug. And, who knows? Maybe his mother actually knows where he is. If she does she sure as hell isn’t going to tell the cops, but maybe she’ll tell me.”

  “Want me to tag along?”

  “No, mom. I can handle this myself. I appreciate the offer, but this is a quick trip, and I’ll be back before you know it. It would take you longer to make arrangements to be away than it will for me to go see if I can find anything out—which, more than likely, I can’t.”

  She gave him a gentle kiss. “You gotta do what you gotta do.”

  It was late afternoon, and he was on the road. He knew making this run was a little nuts, but his instincts said to go. Of course, he could have waited and left early in the morning, but he wanted to end this case as soon as possible. If there had been a travel guide of America’s most boring road trips, then the drive from Santa Fe to Las Cruces would have been featured prominently, but at least there was very little traffic.

  He’d be surprised if he actually found Trent Taylor, but running into Joyce McGregor, the “Bad Ass Mama,” was probably even money. With that in mind, he’d brought both of his handguns. He wasn’t going to say it out loud, but the huge woman worried him.

  As evening turned to night, Vincent spotted an exit that advertised accommodations at T or C. He found a no-name motel. There were a few cars in the lot, and a bunch of long-haul trucks, and Vincent found a spot between two of the big rigs. His room was small, and nearly bare apart from the bed, but that was fine. The anonymity of it gave him comfort, and he quickly dozed off.

  Before getting on the highway the next morning, Vincent went to the McDonalds drive-thru for a sausage biscuit with egg and a coffee. Cheap and filling. The coffee was always too hot, which meant it lasted a long time as he headed to Las Cruces. Damn it, he thought, as he gingerly took a sip. I may not be able to drink that until tomorrow, for cryin’ out loud.

  He got into Las Cruces way too early to drop in at the gallery. He called Tucker.

  “What the hell do you want?”

  “Sorry to wake you. You know you’re really rude, right?”

  “You called me this early in the morning to tell me I’m rude?”

  “Did Moore get Clive released?”

  “Yeah, although she said it was really you who got him released. Father Malone heard Francis’s confession, and suddenly Clive is a free man. Where the hell are you, anyway?”

  “Headed to Las Cruces. It’s just a hunch, but I thought I might be able to catch Taylor before he disappears, or his loving sister kills him.”

  “Not sure I understand all that, Vincent.” Now Tucker sounded concerned.

  “I think Taylor’s running. Pretty sure he killed Anna; I doubt anyone can prove it. He doesn’t know that, so he took off. At least, that’s what I think. He’s from this part of the world, so if he wanted to disappear, I think his first thought would be Mexico, specifically, Juarez. That means he’d probably go through Las Cruces, which is home to him. I also think he might have money hidden out here—a getaway fund. Thought I’d just drop in and see if I got lucky.”

  “That is so fuckin’ stupid. You’re not the cops. You can’t be doing this sort of thing—jeez, Vincent. You only risk personal harm for money, not some misplaced sense-of-justice bullshit. Haven’t I taught you anything?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. Look, Tucker, he might have killed Anna, but I don’t think he’s really dangerous. I know it’s not my problem, but if I can talk to him, maybe I can help him understand he doesn’t have to run, even if he did it, there are probably good defenses, including the fact that he is most likely nuts. I tried to call him, but his voice mail is full. And I thought it was worth a drive on the chance that he’s here, and that I can help wrap this up.” Or maybe I think I’m an old west bounty hunter, and I have to track down the bad guy so everything is all tied up in a nice neat package, and I’m the hero?

  “Vincent, be careful.” There was concern in his friend’s voice, and the whole trip seemed suddenly absurd.

  “I will. I’m just going by the gallery. If I don’t find Taylor there, I’m headed back. Call you later.”

  He disconnected. During the drive to the gallery, he carefully considered the risks and the options that were open to him. Thankfully, he had his trusty weapons. He parked, and saw that the little sign in the window of the gallery said “closed.” He tried the door, and it opened.

  “Hello. Anyone here?” He waited, but there was no answer. “Hello.” Again, no answer.

  Vincent maneuvered through the cluttered showroom and made his way to the back room, pushing open the door. Someone was there, sitting in a chair at a battered old desk. It was Gloria Taylor. She’d been shot in the temple, and was very definitely dead. He looked around, but saw no one else. There was a small pistol on the floor next to Gloria. It might be a suicide, or a murder dressed up like one. He pulled out his phone to call 911.

  “Put the phone up.” Standing in the doorway was the very imposing Joyce McGregor, holding a large handgun. There were cuts on her face, and it appeared her arm was injured. “I remember you. Mister Question Man. Who are you, again?”

  “I’m a PI, investigating a murder in Santa Fe of a gallery owner who was buying fake paintings from this gallery.” Vincent wasn’t sure of the best way to proceed, but he definitely wasn’t going to make any quick moves. “I believe the forgeries were painted by your mother.”

  “Yeah. She painted them, the poor dear. She’d been crazy for a long time, but now she can rest.”

  “Did she kill herself?”

  “She pulled the trigger, but it was her worthless shit of a son who killed her. Did my dumb fuck half-brother kill that person in Santa Fe?”

  Vincent was having trouble reading what McGregor might do—kill him, or herself, or both. “I think so. I don’t have all the details nailed down, but the gallery owner most likely met him that night at the gallery alone. Probably because he’d told her there was a problem with a very expensive painting. He might
have demanded money from her so he could leave the country; she refused and maybe threatened to call the cops. He lost it, and strangled her. But all of that’s just a guess. There’s no video or eyewitness to the murder. He disappeared, and it seemed likely he’d try to hide out in Mexico. I thought he might come through here on the way—partly because it’s on the route, and partly to get money.” He watched Joyce very carefully. “Have you seen him?”

  “Yeah, I saw him.” She made an ugly sound deep in her throat. “My mother had called me some time back, and told me she might be doing something wrong. We weren’t close, and I hadn’t seen her in years—not since I almost killed Trent. She told me about the paintings. She was out of it most of the time. But she started to figure out it was wrong, and she was worried she’d done something bad. I called Trent right then, and told him that if I ever saw him, I’d kill him for sure, and that he should never come here again. Probably should’ve called the police, but that’s just not how I do things. Plus, I wasn’t sure what might happen with my mother if a bunch of cops came around.”

  “Was he here recently?”

  “Yeah. I told you, I saw him. Last night. I came by to look for my mother because she hadn’t come home. When I walked in, he was here getting money out of one of the filing cabinets. I had no idea he’d stashed money here. My mother was here, but she seemed to be in some kind of trance. Of course, he and I got into an argument. I knocked him around some, hurt him. He pulled out a gun—that gun on the floor. We fought for it, and he dropped it. I was ready to give him a good beating when my mother picked it up and shot herself—fell right back into the chair she’d just stood up from. No warning, nothing. Just picked it up and shot herself in the head. We both stood there, stunned. Then I started to turn toward him. I was going to kill him, I’ll tell you that for sure. When I turned, he hit me with a board, knocked me out cold. When I woke up, he was gone. I think he must have hit me with the board some more after I was out, or maybe kicked me, because I feel pretty busted up. It doesn’t matter too much right now, but maybe you should call 911.”