What Evil Lurks in Monet’s Pond?:
A “Paint an Impression of Murder” Mystery #1
by Sara M. Barton
Published by Sara M. Barton at Smashwords
Copyright Sara M. Barton 2012
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Chapter One --
“If you ask me, it was a heist for profit,” said Allie. With her usual dismissive wave of a hand, she pronounced the case solved. The fifty-something doyenne of the family would probably be appalled if I told you her real name is Alberta Susan Scott and behind her back, we refer to her by her acronym of A.S.S., as in “horse’s”. That’s because her royal highness can behave like one.
“I completely disagree,” declared Bowie, her son, the only fruit of her loins. “Why not steal the more valuable paintings? Why take the lesser ones?”
“Maybe it was a crime of convenience,” suggested Aunt Clementine. “The thief only had enough time to get at those particular paintings.
We were all sitting around the long dining table at Nora and Andrew’s place in East Haddam, in the cavernous hall just off the kitchen of their faux castle. You heard me right. Faux castle. Sound like a palace? Think again. With stones as wide as my eldest cousin’s ample bottom and the thickness of her obtuse head, it took the builder, Robert McPherson, ten years to complete his replica of a castle back on the River Clyde. Started in 1892, after he made his fortune as a minor silk thread baron in Manchester, Connecticut, this place was damp, dreary, and bloody cold for most of the year, and I often had to wear my thermal underwear under my formal dress when I came for the annual holiday party. While it looked great on the Christmas Card, with Nora, Andrew, Finlay and the twins, Preston and Ramsay, the house was more than a little on the pretentious side, right down to the antique armor fixed above the massive fireplace in the living room. Everything about it screamed Scotland, the land of my ancestors, and my sister, Nora, had plenty of social gatherings to drill that point home.
Don’t get me wrong. Nora is a real sweetheart, who would give you the kilt off her hips and the shawl off her shoulders if she thought you were cold. She’s very involved in her church’s food pantry efforts and always trying to do the right thing. But she loves all things Scottish.
As a professional marketer, she’s used to convincing people to buy whatever her client of the moment is selling. Her niche is entertainment, and her specialty is home and garden, as in cooking shows and house makeovers. Nora handles the marketing for “Dallas Dinners”, the show featuring Amanda Taylor on her ranch, and Lucky Hammer Productions, with Gayle Jackman, the handy woman’s handywoman.
Her ability to sell what you don’t want or need is legendary. Just ask her husband. When Bothwell Castle came up for sale fifteen years ago, the Johnsons were living in an ordinary saltbox colonial in Centerbrook, where the commute to New Haven was manageable. But after a well-planned blitz by Nora, who lobbied so hard for the stone fortress, Andrew finally capitulated and plunked down far too much money for the old ruin. The man does love his wife, even when she’s over the top with the holidays. Andrew takes it all in stride.
By the way, just so you know -- we’re not allowed to call him anything but Andrew. No Andy, no Drew, not even Andyman, at least in her presence. She thinks it’s too undignified for a man of his position in life. Ironic, because the guy is a down-to-earth kind of fellow, who likes to play football with his boys, still watches cartoons when his wife isn’t around, and even has been known to pull a few pranks in his time. He has a degree in Business from Wharton and is CEO of Wallace Business Systems, but in his off-time, Andrew is a bona fide fanatic of the caber toss, and he uses his four acres to practice throughout the year. Five times a year, he travels to Highland Games around the northeast and competes. He’s not bad. So far, he’s ranked in the top 100 nationally. Built like a bull, with a neck that always looks like it’s been squeezed into a collar two sizes too small, the guy is rugged. That’s a euphemism for chunky.
“I have a completely different opinion about the heist,” announced Georgina, my cousin with a big chip on her shoulder. She’s convinced that we exclude her from conversations because she believes we don’t think she’s very smart, so she always goes out of her way to remind us she has a Ph.D. in biometric science. (Actually, the real reason we dance around her is because she always insists her theories, unlike those we formulate, are well-based in scientific principles and are therefore more worthy than ours.) Georgina works for a defense contractor, Ransome Industries, building systems that use physical characteristics like voice recognition, fingerprints, DNA, even the physical gait of a walker, to identify individuals. Rumor has it she’s been sleeping with her boss, William Ransome, but I have my doubts about that. It’s not like Georgina is all that socially adept. It’s far more likely that she would like to sleep with the man. “Would anyone care to hear my theory?”
I caught sight of Annabelle’s eye roll across the table from me. The twenty-two-year-old is fresh out of college and substitute-teaching at the moment, until she can get a job as a teacher. She applied for a position with an American school overseas, but she hasn’t heard back yet. Budget cuts, no doubt. And just so you know, she’s a chip off the old block, the daughter of my older brother, Broderick. That’s sure to get her in trouble one of these days.
“Sure, Georgie. Let’s have it,” I smiled, encouraging the scientist-turned-amateur-sleuth. Why not? Her theories are usually entertaining, since she really isn’t what you would call an investigator. I get to say that because I actually have some experience in the field, although my family has no idea about what I really do for work.
“I think it was a plot by Islamic pirates.”
“How does that make any sense?” Broderick wondered. “What are you saying? They sailed up the Connecticut River, scaled the cliffs, and beat a path to the door of the Tattinger Museum? Why wouldn’t they just hit the Louvre or the Met? Or something closer to home? Like, say, in Somalia? Why not rob a Saudi prince?”
Ever the skeptic, Broderick is a man with a Jesuitical mindset, constantly engaging in debates at the dinner table. That’s because he practices law. As my mother would say, “Maybe one of these days, he’ll actually succeed at it.” I kid because he’s my older brother, by three years, and to this day, he still thinks he’s in charge.
“You don’t want to rob a Saudi prince,” Georgina scoffed. “You could lose a hand or a head. Better to hit a kaffir, someone who offends the Islamic base. If this is to raise money for jihad, it’s got to adhere to Sharia law. My boss says....”
Here we go again. The great William Ransome, who walks on water, once declared that he would single-handedly save the planet from terrorists and mass murderers by developing the biometric technology that would secure our borders. Ever since he hired Georgie, he’s become her knight in shining armor. Or rather, her knight in laser technology. There’s only one thing biometrics can’t yet do -- take a reading on the human heart and its intentions. As nice as it is to have these systems to identify people, we still need intelligence-gatherers and analysts to sort out the information. I look at Ransome Industries as the moat in front of the castle. You can throw all the alligators in there you want, but the second the bad guys figure out a way to hop across the backs of the reptiles, your security system is null and void. Then
what, genius?
“Let’s hear what the art expert thinks. What do you say, Maisie?” Nora asked. I cringed as all eyes fell on me. Part of that was a guilty conscience. For a brief second, I worried that Georgina would recognize my biological response as a sign of disrespect for the work she does. I’m always thinking well outside the box. That’s because I’m often on the front lines on the war on terror, even though my family thinks I just paint pretty pictures for a living.
“I don’t have the answers,” I acknowledged. “I wouldn’t know where to start to form an opinion about a case this complicated. But I’m certainly curious.”
There, I deflected attention from myself. Let’s move on to someone else’s theory, I silently suggested, glancing down at the cheery red napkin in my lap.
“Bullocks,” said my younger brother, Cuthbert, better known as Bertie. “You’re a professional artist. How can you not have an opinion?”
“I agree,” said Cara, his new wife. “If anyone understands art, it’s you.”
“Maybe the thief is an art lover,” Annabelle interjected, clearly wanting to take her place at the adult table and be treated as an equal in the loud, often raucous discussion.
“Are you suggesting the paintings were stolen from the Tattinger because the perpetrator wanted them hanging in his living room?” her father inquired, taking a long swig of his single malt scotch.
“It could be someone enormously wealthy,” Cara piped in. “Someone so rich, he’s willing to pay to have them stolen.”
I let the conversation flow all around me, sitting back in my chair as my feet began to grow numb from the cold. My mistake was in wearing flats and pantyhose. Note to self -- tights and high heeled boots tomorrow night. Or maybe hiking boots and insulated socks.
“From what I understand,” said Bertie, “the museum’s security system was totally out of date, the conditions inside that mansion were a bloody nightmare in terms of preserving the works, and the board of directors for the museum were at odds with Hermione Wells Tattinger’s lock-solid will on how the museum would be managed.”
“We think it would make a great investigative piece for the Discovery Channel,” Cara added. “It has all the elements of a soap opera. Apparently, the board of directors ousted the museum director for living too lavish a lifestyle in his apartment above the galleries.”
“Echoes of the Gardner heist,” I said out loud, before catching myself. My family didn’t know that I did, in fact, draft a very long analysis of the 1990 theft of paintings from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston for my bosses a few years ago. “You’re right, Bertie. This could make a fascinating study on the whole museum culture. What really goes into deciding exhibits? What are the politics of art exhibits?”
In case you haven’t figured it out yet, the Tattinger Museum lost seven of its paintings in a heist two days ago, on Christmas Eve. Don’t feel bad if you’ve never heard of the obscure little museum. It’s not exactly world-renown for its collection. And therein lies the rub.
Hermione Wells Tattinger was a gold-digger with aspirations. Born in Brooklyn in 1888 to a scullery maid and a groomsman, she climbed her way up the social ladder, marrying five times, and each husband wealthier than the previous, with the exception of Count Viktor Szabo.
She started out with Jack Whitstone, the heir to Whitstone Paper Company. Hermione met him up at Bretton Woods, when she was a maid at the historic hotel. He was lonely, not particularly well-liked or respected by those in his own social circle. With a stutter that made him shy, he was ripe for the picking when the young woman with dollar signs in her eyes set her plan in motion. Before his visit to the White Mountains was completed, he had already fallen head over heels in love with the fair maiden. They eloped and he brought home his bride to the dismay of his socially prominent parents, who did everything they could think of to get the marriage annulled. But Jack was made strong by the marriage and suddenly discovered his own cajones, standing up to his bullying parents for the first time in his life. His father, rather than being horrified, was actually proud that his son had finally come out of his shell. He decided to promote the young lad to mill manager, and sent the ambitious Hermione and her husband back to the wilds of New Hampshire, where the lovebirds settled into their new life as big shots in a tiny mill town. Unfortunately, there was a dreadful accident one day. Some say it was a labor dispute that got ugly. However it happened, Jack fell into the paper press and lost his life. Hermione became a respectable widow at the age of twenty-three and, suddenly flush with the money from her late husband’s estate, set about to use it to find Jack’s replacement.
The next three husbands were all much, much older. Arthur Winslow owned a horse farm in Virginia, Bob Peete was a Texas oilman, and Horace Tillman was a tobacco farmer in Maryland. Hermione became an enormously wealthy woman as her first four husbands expired. She was known as a minor patron of the New American Post-Impressionists, a woman who encouraged undiscovered painters to join her at her castle estate, the very place my sister Nora and brother-in-law bought. Unfortunately, post-impressionism didn’t have the same romantic panache of impressionism. It tended to leave art lovers cold, save for a few really good masters of the genre.
And speaking of cold, her offer to give starving artists a bed and meals at the castle found few takers once the painters realized they were actually to be ensconced in the chilly rooms at the top of the stone fortress. Who wants to paint when your hands are so cold you can’t even feel your fingers? Back then, the castle had no central heat, and Hermione relied on the many fireplaces. As much as she wished to emulate her role model, Florence Griswold did it better in Old Lyme. At least Childe Hassam thought so, because he certainly did some wonderful paintings while at his benefactor’s marsh front home.
“Who wants more gravy?” asked Nora, raising the large gravy boat up for all to see. I demurred, interrupted in mid-thought. If I’m to figure out who actually stole those paintings and why, I’ve got to concentrate, I reminded myself. I learned a long time ago that if I nod every once in awhile and I look at the different faces in the crowd I’m with, I can actually succeed in tuning out the conversation before me without giving myself away.
“Maisie, more turkey?” my brother-in-law asked.
“I’ll pass,” I decided. More room for dessert.
The conversation turned to the kids. They were out for the evening, so it was okay to discuss their accolades openly. Broderick jumped on Finlay’s college aspirations, advising Andrew and Nora to go slowly and consider the big picture for the boy. He was up for a hockey scholarship, thanks to his role as a captain on a team that was expected to play in the state championships down at Yale. I tossed in a couple of encouraging remarks before I tuned out again as the subject turned to Preston and Ramsay. The twins were sophomores at the local high school, involved in lacrosse and swimming, doing just fine. I gave myself some time to consider the history of the museum and its surroundings.
The grounds of Bothwell Castle were extensive back then, consisting of 200 acres of woodlands, pastures, and farmland along the Connecticut River. The more famous castle belonged to William Gillette, an actor with a reputation for playing Sherlock Holmes back when the earth cooled. It’s now a landmark up the river in East Haddam. Hermione’s stone fortress, on the other hand, was less known for a very good reason. She was just not an important presence in the world, no matter how hard she tried to be.
When Hermione married the Count and moved to East Haddam, the year was 1925 and she had big plans. Unfortunately, her husband didn’t share the dream. The Count had no intention of living in the middle of nowhere. He was a much younger man than his cougar bride, and despite all the pomp and circumstance of their first two years at Bothwell Castle, things were not all they seemed to be, as is often the case in these May-September marriages. Hermione, it turns out, didn’t learn of the truth about the Count until after he fled to Hungary. Hardly royalty, the man was a complete fraud, just trying to do what
she had done so long ago and work his way up the social ladder. You would have thought that if anyone could understand that kind of behavior, it would be the daughter of the scullery maid and groomsman, but no. Hermione was bitter, especially about the two million dollars the Count took with him when he fled. She hired a team of Brinks men to hunt him down and drag him back to face charges. In the end, the best they could do was return $1.2 million in gold coins to the widow. Oh, yes. Widow. Hermione lost another husband when the phony count, Viktor Szabo, jumped into the Danube and was presumed dead.
Chapter Two --
I give you the background on Hermione in order to help you understand the situation that the Tattinger Museum was in when she drew up plans for its formation in 1930. Childless and humiliated, having been deceived by the wily Viktor, Hermione was determined to leave a legacy that would continue to place her in the public eye long after she was gone. She spent the last twenty years of her life trying to become the next Isabella Stewart Gardner or Florence Griswold. Alas, she never reached their status in the art world, so when it came time to open the museum to the world, Hermione was forced to purchase the paintings through auction houses and private sales. Instead of finding the next Van Gogh or Gauguin, Hermione contented herself in purchasing affordable art, minor pieces by established masters, hanging them in the halls of Bothwell Castle for the first ten years of the museum’s existence. When she realized that the building itself was not right for the works of art, she made plans. She needed something different, something better, in which to display these works of art, minor though they might be. That’s when she built Bothwell Manor two miles up the road from the castle.
“I heard she was buried in a mausoleum inside the museum,” said Annabelle. That caught my attention.
What Evil Lurks in Monet's Pond: A Page 1