What Evil Lurks in Monet's Pond: A

by Barton, Sara M.

  “What happened? What’s going on? Andrew said the state police are up there. Was this connected to the museum theft?”

  “Hold on,” I replied. I pointed to my stocking feet. “I need to warm up. I need something on my frozen feet. I need hot coffee in my hands. Do you know bloody cold it is out there, when you’re standing around in the middle of the woods for half an hour?”

  It’s true. I had been up there waiting, wondering, worrying for a solid thirty minutes. That’s a lot of time to be with a dead body, especially if there is a secret watcher in the woods. I used the time to take some mental notes. I made sure I didn’t call anyone, in case someone was trying to monitor my phone. But even as I thought about all that, nagging thoughts popped into my head. There was no reason for anyone to expect me to walk the dog up there. I hadn’t taken that trail on any of the three days of walks while I was at Bothwell Castle.

  Which raised an important point. That museum theft occurred on Christmas Eve. A holiday when, traditionally, law enforcement people ask for and receive time off from the job. In the spy world, as with organized crime and terrorism, it’s a time to get busy, knowing that it takes longer to call in investigators to cover whatever crisis results from the illegal activity. Maybe the thief knew that he had a lot of time to steal the artwork. Why did he cut the canvases from their stretchers?

  As an artist, I can tell you that when you work on large pieces, the way the canvas is prepared is a very big deal. You want your work to last for several generations. You invest in frames that will increase the value of your work. The last thing you would do is cut your painting off its wooden support. And if you had the time to take the painting off the wall and keep it intact in its frame, you would. It’s a protective thing. A painting in its frame is less likely to be torn or damaged. Maybe the thief wanted people to think he was in a bigger rush than he was. Maybe those frames were a clue.

  “Here, Maisie. Drink this,” said my sister, thrusting a mug of hot hazelnut coffee at me. It smelled delicious.

  “You’re a peach.”

  “I have socks for you and you can wear my fuzzy slippers.”

  Once warm, I found myself surrounded at the old English pine farm table. One by one, my relatives peppered me with questions, starting with the basics.

  “Did you recognize him?” Georgina wanted to know.

  “Never saw him before in my life,” I admitted.

  “Was there any sign of trauma?” Aunt Clementine had long been a fan of Ruth Rendell and P.D. James, among other authors, and she got right to the heart of the matter.

  “I didn’t see any, other than his hat and glasses were crooked. But that could have happened when he dropped to the ground.”

  “You said there were signs that people had been up there.” Andrew was obviously interested in the answer to that.

  “Definitely. The trail was trampled. He apparently walked in from the east, maybe parking at the road.”

  “Maybe people thought the trail was public,” said Annabelle.

  “You are pretty close to several state parks,” Broderick agreed.

  “We posted signs ever 200 yards around the entire property. You’d have to be a moron to think it was public land. And that trail only starts at the top of the knoll, where the ruins of the old barn stand.”

  It was true. Hermione bought the castle while it still was owned by the original owner, who farmed much of the land. When she moved in, she got rid of the Highland cattle, thinking it a less than stellar aesthetic for her grandiose plans. The stone barn was almost as dank as the castle. Built of fieldstone, it slowly deteriorated over the decades, and by the time Nora and Andrew bought the place, area landscapers had absconded with a lot of the stones, repurposing them in area gardens and walls. All that remained was a smattering of stones amidst the post-and-beam barn frame.

  The trail from the ruin of the barn led down the hill, around the pond where ambitious artists once sat on summer days as they painted bluebirds and butterflies, and around the back of the castle to the terraced gardens now covered in snow.

  “I hate to say this,” my younger brother announced, “but I really do want to document all this, especially if that death turns out to be anything but natural.”

  “But why would anyone want to murder someone up at the pond? Why even go there? It’s so far from the road and there’s nothing around for anyone to steal.” Cara seemed genuinely baffled and I had to admit I was in complete agreement.

  “At one time, that was known as Monet’s Pond,” Nora told us, her voice laden with sadness. “This whole place was a showcase for Hermione. She had a gazebo up there, where they had summer parties. I was planning to reconstruct it.”

  “You were?” We all looked at her in surprise.

  “Yes. Andrew and I agreed this place is too big for the two of us once the boys are off on their own. We were going to rebuild it the way it was when Hermione had it, and then turn it into an amazing little inn with event space for weddings and special events. You know. Like Saint Clements Castle in Portland. It was going to be called Cadell’s Castle, after the Scottish Colourist.”

  “Oh, good heavens!” I sighed. “What a wonderful idea.”

  It was true. The house was far too grand for a family of five, even with the influx of relatives at the holidays. But as an event space and a small inn? I began to understand Nora’s dream. This was why she and Andrew had sunk a small fortune into the ruin of a castle, rebuilding it one step at a time. I could even imagine how the Food Network might want to use it as a backdrop for a cooking show or two. Or maybe HGTV might want to do a garden tour. And that’s when I looked up and saw the raw pain on my sister’s face. She saw her dream slipping away.

  “How lovely,” Aunt Clementine declared. “I do hope I’ll still be able to visit.”

  “Absolutely,” Andrew told the elderly lady, giving her a fond hug as he refilled her coffee mug.

  “Money pit, if you ask me.” That was Alberta’s two cents.

  “No one did,” Bertie pointed out before moving on. “Sis, I think it’s a great idea.”

  “So do I,” said Broderick. “The Scottish Colourists never get the praise they deserve.”

  “I wanted to have an artist-in-residence, or at the very least, an artist-of-the-month exhibit. I want to market the new Impressionists.”

  “Of course, a commercial enterprise,” sniffed the disdainer amongst us.

  “Alberta, take a walk with me,” I commanded. I had reached my fill. Enough was enough.

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to talk to you privately,” I replied. “About something I found out.”

  I knew that would peak her interest. Once a busybody, always a busybody. She padded after me as I headed for the living room. As she entered, I stepped aside, and then I closed the double doors. This would be a very private conversation.

  “Don’t speak.” I held up a hand. “Listen for a moment. You’ve done nothing but criticize and humiliate people since you got here. You’ve had your claws out for me for some time now. It has to stop. If it doesn’t, you can’t be with us any more. You are not going to ruin the holidays for the rest of us, just because you’re a miserable human being.”

  I surprised myself by saying all that without a whiff of sarcasm. The truth is I was tired of constantly feeling like I was under siege. I was taking back the Carr family gatherings. We would be civilized. We would do right by each other. And heaven help anyone who couldn’t make that happen. As I looked into that belligerent face, it began to crumble. The jaw dropped. The tears began to flow. The next thing I knew, Alberta was throwing her arms around me and holding on for dear life. What in God’s name had I done?

  “Alberta?” For the life of me, I had no idea why my cousin was clinging to me like I was a life raft on the Titanic. “Talk to me. What’s wrong?”

  Heavy sobbing. Gasping. Muffled words. Holy mother of pearl. This was not the woman I knew.

  “Alberta? Allie?” I tri
ed to separate myself from the near-hysterical woman. She refused to release me from her death grip. I took a different tact. “Did something happen to you? Something that upset you?”

  That head of dark curls bobbed up and down on my shoulder. This was followed by an enormous wail in my right ear. Even as I winced, I took another shot at the problem.

  “Does it have something to do with Marty?” The missing husband might be a clue, I thought to myself. This was the first holiday the man with the personality of an amoeba hadn’t come for the celebration.

  “Wa-a-a-a-a-ah!” I took the howl from Alberta as a yes.

  “Oh, dear.” What could the problem be? “Is he ill?”

  The head shook left to right. That’s a no.

  “Did he...did he leave?”

  “Aw-w-w-w-w-w!”

  “Marty moved out?” I admit it, I was shocked. I never would expect the guy to have the guts for such a brave act. “He left you? When?”

  “A-a-a-a-a mo-mo-month ago,” she sobbed. At last, that head came up and I looked into those eyes. “He got himself an apartment.”

  Okay. The guy wanted a break from his marriage. Not all that unexpected, now that I thought about it. Let’s be honest. Alberta really can be hard to take sometimes.

  “Have you tried talking to him? You two have been married a long time, Allie.”

  “You don’t understand,” she sniffed, slowly composing herself. “He moved in with Joey.”

  “Well, if I needed a break from my marriage, I’d probably ask a friend if I could stay for a bit,” I reassured her. “That’s pretty normal, don’t you think?”

  “But....”

  “But what? Maybe he can’t afford to get himself his own place, especially if he’s planning to divorce you.” I know, I know. That was pretty blunt. But if anyone deserved a kick in the fanny, it was Alberta.

  “What if he’s....”

  “Not coming back?”

  “No. You know.”

  “I know what?” Good lord. Was the woman completely out of her mind?

  “I’m afraid that he’s...you know....”

  “Can I ask you a dumb question?” I took a step back, keeping my eyes on her. “Are you interested in knowing why Marty left you?”

  “I assume it’s because he’s...gay.”

  “What would make you think he is?” I wondered. “Has he ever told you that he’s attracted to men?”

  “No, but....”

  “Alberta, you have a very active imagination. There are so many reasons why Marty could have left you, starting with your abrasive personality. Seriously, you can be tough to take sometimes.”

  “That’s not nice, Maisie.”

  “It may not be nice, but sometimes you’re a bully. You don’t listen to people when they talk. You’re judgmental beyond the scope of normal. If anything, you drive people away with your brow-beating....”

  “Are you done?” she sobbed.

  “Not quite. You can be your own worst enemy, Alberta. You make assumptions and you treat people like they’re guilty simply because you have suspicions.”

  “Marty and I haven’t had...relations in a long time.”

  “So?”

  “That proves that he’s not interested in women.”

  “No, it does not. It proves he’s lost interest in you.” Below the belt, and yet true. “It doesn’t mean he’s not attracted to other women.”

  “But look at him. He’s always so....” Alberta sat down, defeated, in the wing chair. All her fears were coming back now to haunt her. I was looking at more than twenty years of worry.

  “Casper Milquetoast-y?” I perched on the arm of the sofa. With a sad smile, I pressed on. “You picked a man you could rule with an iron fist and you got away with it for too long. Now he’s had enough. That’s all you really know, Allie. The rest? That’s just speculation. You have to make a decision. Do you want the truth or do you want to keep living a lie? If you want Marty back, it’s going to take a lot more than a timid effort to get at the truth.”

  “There’s no point in....”

  “Oh, I get it. You’d rather have people think the guy is gay than admit you drove him away with your constant belittling. Rather cowardly, don’t you think?”

  “You’re just mean!” she wailed.

  “No, I’m calling a spade a spade. You’ve dug this hole for yourself because you’re just so damn arrogant, you can’t accept being wrong about anything. And you’d actually prefer to have people believe a lie about your husband than to believe the truth about you. What kind of life is that?”

  “He...he got laid off six months ago,” she told, as if Marty had committed some terrible crime. “He wanted me to get a part-time job.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “Did you?”

  “No, why should I? He’s supposed to be the breadwinner. I told him several times to grow a pair, but did he listen to me? No! He said I had no idea what life was really all about!”

  “In other words, when the chips were down, you buried him in guilt, made him feel like a failure, and did your utmost to shove him out the door.”

  Chapter Seven --

  “How can you say that?” she cried, horrified at the thought. “I’ve been very patient and understanding throughout this whole crisis.”

  “Have you?”

  “Of course I have! What am I doing talking to you?” She asked herself that question, and followed it up by answering it. She got to her feet, pacing the room as she sputtered. “You’re not even married. You have no experience with something like this. It’s easy for you to judge me. You’re single. You don’t know what commitment is like. You’re just bitter because you never got married. And now you’re happy because I’m miserable. Oh, I know all about you, Margaret Dawson Carr!”

  Fascinated, I watched Alberta talk herself back into that black hole. And as she spun her words, I suddenly realized that she had wasted a lifetime believing the fallacies that made her feel safe. She never had to question her place in life. She just had to question everyone else’s. A woman determined not to be at fault.

  “You know what, Alberta? You’re right. You do know more about life than I do. You understand people better than I do, too. In fact, you should have been a psychologist, because you see things in people that no one else sees. You’re a real ‘people person’ and you have all the answers. You’re so smart, you’ve got nothing left to learn. My only regret is that you don’t get the respect you so clearly deserve from this family.”

  “That sounds sarcastic,” she decided.

  “Does it? You’d know best, dear. After all, you’re the oldest and the wisest. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.” I brushed past her on my way out the door.

  From now on, I instructed myself, I was going to agree with everything that idiot said, regardless of how wrong she was. I was going to kill her with kindness, because if that wasn’t my weapon of choice, I was quite likely to bludgeon her to death with the nearest candelabra. The woman was, to put it mildly, the most irritating wretch on the planet, and I was damned if I was going to let her get the better of me.

  Gesso was taking a nap with Elmore Leonard, the Johnson family Labrador, in the kitchen. Aunt Clementine was baking a batch of her famous chocolate chip cookies, mixing up the batter in the bowl. I grabbed some granola and milk, wolfed it down as I glanced over the New York Times. The police were still in the upper field by the pond. I could see all the vehicles lined up in the driveway and a constant parade of people coming and going. I rinsed out my bowl, grabbed another cup of coffee from the coffeemaker, and watched her drop the teaspoons of cookie dough onto the baking sheet.

  “I’ve got an offer to write a blog post about the art heist,” I told her. “I think I’ll head over to the museum to see if I can find some inspiration. Would you like to join me when the cookies are done?”

  “I think I’ll pass on that, dear. I’m too rattled by everything that’s going on. I do
n’t really handle stress all that well anymore.”

  “I’m sorry you’re upset, love. Don’t take it to heart. We’ll sort it all out. The Carrs always do.”

  “Alberta seems so angry,” she confided.

  “Between us, that’s because Marty left her. He moved out of the house. He also lost his job about half a year ago. My best guess is that everything has been building up for some time, and unfortunately, it all comes out now.”

  “Pity,” Aunt Clementine decided. “I always felt sorry for Marty. He seemed like such a lost soul.”

  “Really?” I admit I was surprised to hear her perspective on the situation. To me, Marty was just a guy who had no confidence at all. He relied on Alberta to tell him what to do and how to do it. But it never seemed to bother him that he was always taking direction.

  “You always have to feel sorry for people who don’t know their own minds. They’re so easily influenced by the strong-willed. And when they finally learn to speak up, it always comes as such a shock.”

  “It does, doesn’t it?”

  “Those are the people who won’t ever go back to the way things were. They burn their bridges behind them.”

  “That they do,” I smiled as she wiped her hands on a dish towel.. I gave her a little hug and then headed upstairs to change.

  Nora was coming out of her bedroom when I started up the final flight of stairs to the tower room.

  “Hey,” she hailed me. “How did the conversation go?”

  “Not that well, I’m afraid. Marty left her, she’s convinced he’s gay, and I’m fed up with her absolute stupidity. She doesn’t want to admit she’s wrong, so it’s everyone else’s fault. I’m taking off for the museum in a few minutes. I’ve got a post to write. Tell the police that’s where they can find me.”

  “You’re leaving, just like that?” Nora was always the good girl in the family, the one who played by the rules.

  “Just like that. It’s either that or I’m going to take a swing at Alberta. Besides, these cops are investigating the museum theft. They’re already killing two birds with one stone. I’m sure they won’t mind me parking my carcass there.”