Blue Flower Red Thorns

by Ted Clifton

  Vincent actually laughed. “Free beer ought to cheer up anyone. I’ll tell you what—if you have time, I’ll buy you a free beer.”

  It wasn’t a match made in heaven. But they were trying, and that counted for a lot.

  “Back from your Albuquerque run?”

  “Yeah. The last guests were all such nice people. I’m not sure how they found out about the Inn, but Cindy and Jerry were a great hit. The guests couldn’t stop saying nice things about them, and about how they were already planning on coming back.”

  “Is Jerry still doing most of the cooking, or is Mary doing more now?”

  “Well, actually, that’s a problem. Jerry can do some things, but they’ve started offering a light lunch. It’s a convenience for some guests who don’t want to go all the way into Santa Fe for lunch, and then again for dinner. So, Mary’s been fixing that, plus helping with breakfast. And she’s starting to have trouble keeping up with her cleaning.”

  “Well, that fits right into what I wanted to ask. Do you think they’d consider hiring someone to help with the cleaning? A cousin of mine—actually, I think she’s my late husband’s cousin, although the whole relative thing gets mixed up unless I sit down with paper and pencil and draw a family tree, and anyway, that’s not important—she has a niece who’s visiting her from Houston. She asked me if I could give her a job, because she thinks she needs to do something other than be on her phone all the time. She had some boy problems in Houston, and her mother shipped her out here, under threat of being disowned. The cousin here says she’s a sweet girl, though, and thinks the whole problem may be the domineering mother. The point is, I can’t hire her at the bar, because she’s only twenty. So, I was thinking maybe the Olivers could use her help, as a maid or whatever.”

  “Sure. They might. I’ll ask. What’s her name?”

  “Mariana Garcia. And not that it matters, but she’s absolutely beautiful.”

  “Hey, good looks helped me get my job.” Vincent often hid his sense of humor well, but it was always lurking around his rough edges—especially around Nancy. It was nice that he could chat so easily with her. She made him feel good, and he enjoyed her company. He was still shocked that he could find someone at his age. He’d thought he was done with relationships, apart from, maybe, health care providers.

  He said goodbye, and headed to the Inn, outside Santa Fe in a forested, hilly area dotted with mostly high-end homes. The Blue Door Inn was enchanting. Set down a small, narrow lane, a newcomer’s first impression could be almost magical. Jerry and Cindy had invested a lot in the property, and it showed. And while it wasn’t Vincent’s business, it still felt like home to him, even if his personal space was a single small room. He was proud of where he worked.

  Entering the kitchen, Vincent found Jerry staring at his laptop, reading a recipe. “What are you makin’?”

  “Blueberry-walnut banana bread.” Jerry looked concerned. “The thing is, we have no guests right now, so I’m thinkin’ about experimenting a little and tossin’ in some chocolate chips—what do ya think?”

  “I’d say, toss away. Saw Nancy just a little while ago. One of her many cousins has a niece visiting from Houston who needs a job to keep her busy. Nancy said she could do cleaning or whatever you need. Her name is Mariana Garcia. Would you be interested?”

  “Hell, yes, we’d be interested. We’ve got that Dutch artist and her entourage coming in a few weeks, and as of right now, Mary’s barely talking to me because I keep asking her to do more. When can she start?”

  “I’ll call Nancy and let her know. Do you want her to come by and interview, or what?”

  “Nah. Nancy’s recommendation is enough for me. Just a minute, let me ask Cindy.”

  “Ask Cindy what?” Cindy asked, coming in just then. Jerry told her about Nancy’s cousin’s niece.

  “Oh, by the way, Nancy said she’s gorgeous,” Vincent put in. “Not sure if that’s good or bad.” Vincent was being honest. Hard workers were often not the most glamorous of people.

  Cindy gave Vincent a look he couldn’t quite interpret. “I agree with Jerry,” she said. “We need somebody, and I’m fine with relying on Nancy’s recommendation. Tell her she has the job, and see if she can show up starting tomorrow.”

  “What’s the deal with the Dutch artist?”

  Cindy took over and began to beam. “This could be a huge deal for us. I met Anna Marks at one of the women’s groups I’ve been going to, and she asked me if we could have them as guests, and host a showing here at the Inn. Anna owns the Howard Marks Gallery on Canyon Road, and according to a few people I’ve talked to, it’s one of the most successful galleries in town. I don’t know anything about art, so I didn’t have a clue about what a big deal this art show was. This guy at the paper—I swear he’s the biggest gossip in town, and I always blank on his name—he said that this was on an international scale. Apparently, this young woman from the Netherlands is quickly becoming a huge deal in the art world. Anna has booked every room with us for more than a week, and she’s scheduled a small private reception here, with a special showing of a few pieces. What shocked me was that apparently rumors are flying that if all of the paintings in the show sell, it could bring in over ten million dollars.”

  “What’s the artist’s name? Have we heard of her?” Vincent asked.

  “Her name’s Ilse De Vries, but unless you follow contemporary art, you wouldn’t know her name. She’s in her mid-twenties, and something of a wild child, according to the newspaper guy. He said she’d had affairs with lots of famous people, mostly movie stars—of both sexes. And she’s had some bad press about her drug use.”

  “I wonder if she’s interested in mature, sophisticated, older gentlemen?” Vincent managed to say it with a straight face.

  Cindy laughed. “Well, before you get your hopes up, you should know she’s traveling with her mother. On kind of a troubling note, the guy at the paper told me in complete confidence—which probably just means he can’t publish it—that the Marks gallery could be in financial trouble. He said if this show isn’t a huge success, they might be at serious risk of going bankrupt.”

  “Ouch. Does that mean we should get our money up front?” Jerry asked. So far, they’d only been stiffed once by a guest. But Jerry worried about money incessantly, even though he and Cindy were reasonably wealthy, living off the proceeds from the sale of a software business he’d built up over many years. Vincent once asked him why he seemed to worry about money so much, given they were loaded. He’d said it was an old habit he found hard to break.

  “I already told Anna we have to have half the cost up front,” she said, “especially since they’re renting the entire Inn. That was before I heard about their finances. But even so, I’d say we’re okay. As long as we have half the fee, that’ll cover all our costs, easily. And, who knows? Mister Gossip may be saying similar things about us. He doesn’t seem to be the most reliable person.”

  “I’ll call Nancy and let her know about the niece having a job if she wants it. Sounds like we could use the help. How many guests will there be?” Vincent asked.

  “Nine altogether. Only three are in the artist’s group—Ilse, her mother, and her manager. But Anna wants six of her best customers to stay with us, too. I think she chose us because she lives in the area and it’s convenient to have them close, but not have to deal with putting them up as houseguests.” Cindy thought a moment. “I think our biggest challenge will be the reception—that could go as high as forty people, which is pushing our limit for space, and it’s way beyond our capacity for preparing and serving food. I’m thinking it might be best to get that part catered. I’ve met a couple of caterers in town, and several of them have offered generous discounts to get us to try them.”

  Jerry didn’t look happy. “I’m not sure about having events catered. Does that say that we can’t handle our own business?”

  “I think what it says, is that you’re smart,” she replied.

  Vincent ga
ve Jerry a look that warned him not to bite off more than he could chew. Jerry and Cindy continued their event planning while Vincent stepped into the dining room to call Nancy. He returned a few moments later. “Got hold of Nancy, who talked to her cousin, and Mariana Garcia will be here tomorrow. And Nancy said she used to work for a catering company, but it was as a driver.”

  “Everybody’s a comedian.” Jerry shook his head as he headed into the kitchen.

  Vincent grinned at Cindy, then went outside to admire the gazebo and the beautiful gardens while he smoked one of his two nasty cigarettes of the day.

  Smoking is almost as addictive as obsessively making notes, even mental ones, at the end of each day. You’re not an investigator anymore, Malone! I keep doing it, anyway.

  There’s a real comfort to my life right now, and that has me very nervous. Bad shit always seems to sneak up on me when I least expect it. If I’m already in the shit, then I don’t waste too much time worrying that more will come along—the bad stuff has already found me. But, when things are going well? I sure as hell don’t deserve Nancy, which means that trying to have her will probably result in some kind of train wreck. That’s the law in Vincent’s world.

  Amsterdam, North Holland, The Netherlands—Some Months in the Past

  The sun was sneaking in through the shaded window with the promise of a bright, beautiful day. Ilse had been up for hours, working at her computer. She was in touch with people all over the world via Facebook and Instagram, and a few special admirers by email. If she could be said to have friends—and that was a big “if”—it was this faceless crowd of adoring fans who reached out to her every day, fawning over her and praising her. She never tired of it. Many of them were art lovers, but most were celebrity worshippers. Being famous, even in a small circle, gave Ilse power. And she adored power.

  She stared out the window of her room in an upscale boutique hotel. Behind her, she could hear the shower running, while in the square below she could see a fountain, which later in the day would attract kids, all running and laughing. She was always comfortable in her city. Unlike many major metropolitan areas of the world where conflict was common, Amsterdam seemed at peace with itself.

  By contrast, she was tired of all of the conflict in her life. She regretted her fling the previous night with her American gallery owner, Anna Marks. Anna was ancient by Ilse’s standards, and tiresome. She wasn’t sure why she’d even slept with her—just a lark, more or less. But poor, sad Anna now claimed to be in love with her, which made Ilse want to puke. She had done more stupid things than she could possibly remember, but most of them while she was drunk or high—or both. She forgave herself those things since, in a way, it wasn’t really she who’d done them. Not the same person who woke up in the morning, anyway. But this nonsense with Anna was just her being controlling, having some fun when there was nothing better to do. She’d gained very little, and now she had to pay the price of dealing with Anna. It was going to be difficult—mostly for Anna.

  She still needed Anna for a few more months. Her out-of-control life had recently begun to cost more than she could afford. Even being the hottest new artist on the contemporary art scene didn’t mean unlimited money rolling in, and she’d spent a lot in a short time. Her evil witch of a mother and her poor, long-suffering manager constantly scolded her, but she ignored them. She knew her manager, Dirk Jensen, meant well. However, he’d earned a place on her shit list because he agreed too often with her mother. And her mother, the useless lump, had lived off men for most of her life, including Ilse’s father—husband number two in a sequence of four. But years had passed, and men weren’t interested anymore, so she sponged off her disrespectful daughter, instead. Ilse had asked her repeatedly to leave, but Bente Smit had nowhere to go. In her place, a normal person would at least shut up and stop criticizing the gravy train—but not Bente.

  Now Ilse needed money, pronto, and Anna was the answer. The showing she was setting up in Santa Fe, New Mexico, could generate as much as three or four million for Ilse if everything went as planned. That would fill up the money hole, and give her plenty of cash to do whatever she wanted. The Howard Marks gallery hadn’t been the biggest one to approach Ilse about representing her in the United States, but they’d made the most generous offer on commission splits. Dirk had been opposed to doing business with the Marks gallery because of a recent scandal over forged work, but Anna convinced Ilse that the gallery had reached an out-of-court settlement to end the harassment of a lawsuit, and all that was completely over now. According to Anna, the gallery hadn’t done anything wrong—it was the victim. Between that and the substantially smaller commissions Anna was willing take, Ilse signed the contract for the show. The biggest event would be in Santa Fe, presumably because Anna lived there, but that didn’t really matter. Most international buyers were comfortable traveling to Santa Fe for shows like this. The city was one of the biggest art markets in the world. After that, there would be smaller shows in New York, Dallas, and Los Angeles. Ilse was confident that Anna would hit her sales targets, which meant she had to find a way to put up with her for a while. Not that it had required having sex with her—Ilse had seduced her to gain a greater sense of control. She liked controlling people.

  “Good morning, sweetheart.”

  God, Anna was already clinging. She was a tall woman with a no-nonsense, short haircut, shot through with touches of gray. She was pretty, but in a plain way, with a slender figure. Her age was showing, and she’d reached the point where she was trying a little less to hide it. Her striking, intense blue eyes still conveyed a keen intelligence, but around them a few crows’ feet had begun to show.

  “Anna, I don’t want to be mean, but I’m not your sweetheart. Look, it was fun, okay? But I’m not looking for a relationship. It was an impulsive thing, that’s all. Plus, we’ve got way too much going on with the business. We don’t want that to get all confused with personal stuff.”

  Ilse was young and emotionally unstable, but she was beautiful, with a gorgeous body she put to good use, both for pleasure and to get things she wanted. At the moment she was dressed in nothing but a loose T-shirt, showing herself off. She was a little shorter than Anna, but to Ilse, it felt like she was taller—like she dominated.

  Anna just stared. “I’m sorry, did I do something wrong?” Her face was forming itself into a pout—not attractive.

  “Please, let’s approach this like adults. I think it would be a big mistake for us to start a personal relationship at this point—at least, wait until the show is over. This is too important to both of us, financially and professionally—we can’t take our focus off the show. Let’s be friends for now. Then, maybe after the show is a huge success, we can take some time and see if there’s anything else. What do you think?” Ilse didn’t really care what Anna thought. She just wanted to pacify the older woman until she had her money. After that, she’d be only too happy never to see the pitiful old hag ever again.

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Anna agreed, if a little glumly. “This is really important. We shouldn’t let our personal feelings get in the way. You’re so smart for someone so young—and so beautiful.” Anna was in love, and confused about her sexuality as well. She’d never been with a woman before. At that very moment it dawned on her that she actually wanted to leave, to get out of the little hotel room. She was afraid, and didn’t know why. “I think I’ll just get my things together and head back to my hotel. Might be best if I got an early flight and started getting everything ready for the show.”

  “Sounds smart.” Ilse turned back to her computer and forgot about Anna completely.

  Anna knew her feelings for Ilse were wrong. She also knew Ilse was an evil little brat. What she didn’t know was why she was so attracted to the little monster. She had taken a cab back to her modest hotel, and once in her room she’d begun to cry, and found it hard to stop. She crawled into bed and slept for several hours, woke at dusk and took a shower. Feeling better, she called the a
irlines and managed to move her scheduled flight to New York City to the afternoon of the next day. Once everything was set, she went back to bed and slept until morning.

  As soon as she woke, she ordered room-service breakfast and made her first call.

  “Howard Marks Galleries. Trent Taylor here.”

  “Trent, this is Anna. Change of plans. Headed back to New York this afternoon, won’t get in until late. Staying at the Belvedere. Meet me in the morning for breakfast at the café in the hotel, say around nine. I want an update on our finances and what it’s going to take to put on this De Vries exhibition. Okay?”

  “Sure Anna, I’ll be there. Everything okay? You sound a little down.”

  “Fine. I’m just tired. Ilse’s a handful, but I’ve got it under control. We’ve got to do this show right, no mistakes. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  If Anna had listened to Trent four years before, they wouldn’t have been dealing with this mess. The financial side of the business had always been her weakness, but its current trauma had been the result of too much confidence in her instincts regarding art. Anna had grown up in the business, with a domineering father who didn’t tolerate mistakes. She’d been under his thumb for most of her life. So, after he suddenly died of a heart attack, she went a little wild. Her father’s rules, expectations and demands had always felt like huge weights she had to bear. With all that gone, she wanted to prove her worth, and maybe even prove she knew more than he ever had. The opposite happened. She knew the business as well as anyone, but she was taken in by some very clever people.

  It was no mugging. It was the most sophisticated type of crime there is—art forgery. She was the victim, fleeced by expert criminals. But what hurt the most was the publicity. Patrons who had bought the forgeries sued. Ultimately, she’d been able to settle the suits with out-of-court agreements that stated the Howard Marks Gallery did no wrong. But it had been extremely costly. Paying out that kind of money was the most humiliating thing Anna ever had to do, and it was soul-crushing to put at risk the business her father had spent his entire life building. She had to make a lot of money off this show, or she might as well be dead.