What Evil Lurks in Monet's Pond: A

by Barton, Sara M.

  “I hope you’re right,” she warned me. “I can’t take much more drama, Maise.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Fifteen minutes later, I had paid my admission and found myself in the main courtyard. I found myself a seat opposite Hermione Wells Tattinger’s mausoleum, admiring the reflecting pool that stood before it. The gentle gurgle was soothing and I forced myself to sketch the scene, letting my mind wander as I worked my magic on the paper.

  My thoughts were interrupted by a group entering the glass-roofed courtyard. I recognized a couple of the cops from the snow-covered scene earlier in the morning. The shorter investigator, Matt Gromski, beat a path to me as I sat with my drawing.

  “Ms. Carr, I thought we asked you to wait at the house.”

  “You did.”

  “But you chose not to do that.”

  “I did.”

  “May I ask why?” He seemed rather non-plussed at my non-compliance.

  “Have you interviewed my cousin yet, Alberta Susan Scott?” I inquired.

  “No, we have not. Should we?”

  “Not because she actually has any relevant information. But I’m guessing that by the time you’re done talking to her, you’ll understand why I needed to get out of the house.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “Judge for yourself,” I responded non-committally. “Suffice it to say that you found me now, so I’ll be happy to answer any questions you have.”

  “Dave!” the detective hailed a man wearing a black overcoat, with graying hair and a moustache. “She’s over here.”

  I watched the stranger cross the courtyard, and as I did I thought, “I know him.” It was the way he moved -- confidence, the haughtiness, the determination that gave him away.

  “Ms. Carr, let me introduce the man the FBI sent from Washington to coordinate the investigative efforts for the museum heist. This is Dave Matthews. His specialty is art thefts.”

  Dave Matthews, my fanny! His real specialty is espionage. And if he’s here in person, this is a national security thing. I reluctantly put down my pen and took the proffered hand as I gazed up into the eyes I knew so well. Ross’s. He might be in disguise, but I know my lover when I see him.

  “Mr. Matthews,” I said.

  “Ms. Carr, I know of you by reputation. I’ve seen some of your work. I’m an admirer.”

  “Are you?”

  “Would you mind going over the details of how you found the body today?”

  “Why? Is it connected to the theft of the paintings?” I shot back. I couldn’t help myself.

  “You can let us worry about that. We’re just trying to cover all of the avenues,” he replied, with a touch of arrogance in his voice. Well-played, I nodded. Just the right Washingtonian note. Enough that the state cops would buy the story. I decided I was annoyed enough with Ross to make his game a little harder to play.

  “Well, I don’t know what I can tell you. I walked the dog. She found the body. I called 911. End of story.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Gentlemen,” Ross said, turning to Gromski and a pair of uniformed cops, “would you please excuse us a moment? I would like to read the Riot Act to Ms. Carr. Apparently she has issues with authority figures.”

  “Sure,” said the male cop, with a small shrug. “Knock yourself out. We’ll be checking the rooms as we discussed.”

  “You come and find us when you’re done,” said the female cop, her eyes lingering on Ross.

  “I’m just going to go up and talk to the curator again in his apartment. Buzz me when you’re ready,” said Gromski. Ross took the seat next to me, silent as he watched the cops walk away, their footsteps echoing on the polished marble floor. Once Gromski had exited through the “employees only” door and the uniformed police officers went out to the office, he turned his attention back to me. “How’s everything?”

  “Just ducky. How’s everything with you?”

  “Sounds like you’re not happy with me.”

  “Your hearing’s improved.”

  Chapter Eight --

  “And this is because?”

  “Because you and I don’t work any more.”

  “Since when?” he demanded.

  “Since you got chained to a desk in plain sight.”

  “What am I missing?” Ross looked straight ahead, at the mausoleum. That’s how I knew he was paying attention to me. He’s a sidewinder.

  “When was the last time we really spent any time together?”

  Four months ago, we had a weekend in the Blue Mountains. We hiked to a cabin in the middle of nowhere. It took five hours to hike in, five hours to hike out, and in between, we danced all around the subject of what to do with us as a couple. Every time I broached the subject, he changed it.

  “This isn’t really a good time to be discussing this, babe.”

  “Well, it wasn’t a good time when we went to the mountains, so there you go.”

  “Maisie, why do you think I came all the way from DC? Can we please focus on that?”

  “No. I don’t think I’m interested.”

  “Because?”

  “Because my cousin’s son announced that I am listed in the WikiLeaks files as a spy. Because my cousin’s husband recently moved out after more than two decades of marriage and she’s convinced he’s gay. And because I think our relationship is in the crapper and I’m mad as hell about that.”

  “Those are three different things,” Ross pointed out, his eyes on the glass roof.

  “Are they? I don’t think so. I think they’re all connected. I think someone reached out to Bowie because we’re related. I think someone got to Marty because Alberta is my cousin. And I think you have been slowly withdrawing from our relationship, all because of that stupid WikiLeaks situation.”

  Ross heaved a deep sigh, and as he exhaled, I understood that I had hit the mark. My family had become a target because some weasels decided they knew what was best and took matters into their own hands, regardless of the cost. Finally, after he scratched his forehead, he spoke. Ross only does that scratching thing when he’s nervous.

  “I’d like to leave this for now, Maise. We have much bigger fish to fry.”

  “Do we?” My words were clipped. I was still angry.

  “The dead guy you found, he’s an artist.”

  “Why is that CIA business? Why is the art heist CIA business?”

  “Because we still don’t know who stole the artwork or if it’s part of a game to draw you out into the open.”

  Now I got it. This is why Ross was posing as an FBI agent from Washington on the Tattinger Museum theft. This is why the CIA wanted me to investigate. So they could watch. Maybe that’s why I knew I was under observation in the woods.

  “I just have one question,” I informed him. “And I would like an honest answer or no answer at all. If this WikiLeaks thing had never happened, where would we be at this moment in our relationship?”

  “I’ll be in touch.” Ross stood up suddenly, fake moustache and all, and exited the building without another word. My heart popped out of my chest and chased after him. Unfortunately, I wasn’t along for the ride. I was still the lump sitting on the bench, wondering what I was going to do next.

  What could I do? I considered my options. I could figure out how the paintings were stolen, but in order to do that I’d need more information. I could figure out what was stolen and why, but I would need more information. In fact, I would get nowhere if I didn’t get it. What to do?

  “Ms. Carr,” said Matt Gromski, “how about we have that conversation now?”

  If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s that when you want information, you’re more likely to get it if your target thinks you’re the one doing the most giving. People will claim up when they think you’re working them, but they’ll spill the beans if they think you’re dishing the dirt. It’s on the principle that buddies play fair, and if you show yourself to be
a buddy first and foremost, most folks want to join in.

  “Sure.” I put down my sketch pad on the bench, so he could see what I had been drawing.

  “Nice.”

  “Thanks.” I gave him my full attention and a warm smile. “What did you want to ask me?”

  “You said you didn’t recognize the man.”

  “Right.”

  “You’ve never seen him before?”

  “I don’t think so, Mr. Gromski.”

  “Lieutenant,” he corrected me.

  “Lieutenant.”

  “How do you explain that he had your business card on him?”

  “My what?” I didn’t have to fake my surprise. “How did he get that? And why would he have it?”

  “We were hoping you could tell us.”

  “Can I see the card? Sometimes, if I meet people in the street or at an exhibit, I jot down things on the back of the card, to remind myself about the conversation.”

  He pulled out his cell phone and opened up his photo album. Passing it over to me, he waited for me to examine the photo of the card. I could see it was in a bag, with an evidence tag on it.

  “That’s odd. My name is spelled wrong.”

  “Is it?”

  “Maizie, with a ‘z’. I spell it with an ‘s’. See?” I pulled a card out of my wallet and handed it to him. “And look at the painting on the card.”

  “What about it?”

  “Wrong color paint tube.” Sure enough, instead of alizarin crimson, it was cadmium red. “Why would someone forge my business card? Why not just pick one up? And, here. See that?”

  He leaned in closer as I put my finger on the tiny figure of Gesso in the background. “What about it?”

  “It says ‘Jess’.”

  “So?”

  “My dog’s name is Gesso, which is used to prime canvases. It’s spelled g-e-s-s-o. Whoever crafted this business card knew some things about me, but not enough. What else were you going to ask me?” Now I was really curious.

  “You ever show your work at the Lladro Gallery in Madrid?”

  “No. I’m trying to exhibit at Jorge Juan in March, but I haven’t heard back yet. The owner’s supposed to contact me in a couple of days, and then I have to make the arrangements to get everything over there. That means the paintings have to be put in crates for shipping, inspected by Customs....”

  “Any chance you have a doppelganger?”

  “My sister Nora and I don’t really look like twins, if that’s what you’re getting at, Lieutenant. For one thing, I’m three inches taller than she is. She takes after my mother’s side of the family.”

  Matt Gromski gave me a little smile as he listened to my answer. He jotted something down in his notebook before responding.

  “This is out of our investigatory scope, Ms. Carr. If there is some kind of international thing going on, we’ll have to turn it over to the federal investigators.”

  As he said that, I suddenly put two and two together. Ross wasn’t here, posing as an FBI man, just because he wanted to see me. He wanted to make this an international investigation. The question is why? What did it have to do with those WikiLeaks?

  I continued to work on my drawing for another couple of hours, losing myself in the process. Turning off my conscious mind for a bit, I drifted in and out of thought. Everything I had read about Hermione Wells Tattinger made me think she was incredibly self-absorbed, more interested in the value of her name than her paintings or stable of artists. It was all for show.

  In what ways was she like her idol, Isabella Stewart Gardner? Gardner had drawn up that ridiculous will, insisting that time stand still and her museum be forever unchanged, much to the frustration of several curators. I still had my own theory on what had occurred. In my humble opinion, it was a crime of passion -- most likely by a member of the board of directors, probably more than one. Look at the goal of breaking the will in order to protect the artwork. How would one achieve it? By stealing the paintings from the museum, showing how antiquated the security was, and also by highlighting the conditions within the museum. The paintings in the Gardner at the time of the theft were rotting without the proper climate control.

  I once heard a rumor -- I can’t say who the source was -- who suggested that at the time of the Gardner heist, there was a man, an avid art collector, who had just learned he was infected with HIV. Knowing that he was likely to develop full-blown AIDS and die within a few years, this wealthy individual with deep roots in the Boston social scene did something very unusual, something totally out of his normal comfort zone. He planned a crime. Not a crime as grave as the one the people at the Gardner Museum committed, allowing those priceless works of art to crumble to dust. No, his was a minor crime. It was a matter of fooling the police and the public into thinking the paintings had left the building. For months, those paintings were said to be tucked away in the restoration room, where paintings were frequently brought to be touched up, cleaned, and returned to the less than desirable conditions of the Gardner Museum.

  It was also said that the man had some serious accomplices, dedicated art lovers who were willing and able to assist him in not only breaking Isabella Stewart Gardner’s ironclad will, but in improving the museum from top to bottom, building another wing, adding improvements to the old section -- in other words, creating a whole new museum.

  If the rumors were true, you might ask, why haven’t the paintings resurfaced yet? Why weren’t they discovered and returned once the museum was redone? The speculative answer, in some art circles at least, is that the man, who was prepared to take the fall for all of the people who helped him take charge of the deteriorating artwork, got a reprieve. His HIV was managed, never developing into AIDS. He didn’t die. Hence, the plan to have his lawyer return the treasures to the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum never happened. Poor Charlie on the MTA still can’t get off without forking over his nickel. You see, according to those with their ears pressed to the ground, listening to the talk, the man planned to leave an enormous chunk of cash to the museum, but only after his death and only once the board of directors got rid of the ridiculous will.

  I know a lot of really passionate art lovers who would have backed the man up with whatever he needed -- cash, restoration services, even willing to pose as the thieves. Not your normal criminals at all. Maybe that’s why they got away with it. It wasn’t done to profit from the sale of the paintings. It wasn’t done to abscond with treasures. It was done to fix what was broken within the museum’s management. That’s why the people weren’t popping up on law enforcement radar. They truly believed what they were doing would save what was best about the Gardner’s collection for generations to come. They saw themselves as a noble group, like the French Resistance or the Underground Railroad, and so lying came easily to their lips. They were able to provide information without compromising the ring leader. And they were able to circulate rumors all over the world by just picking up the phone and saying, “You’re not going to believe what I just heard!”

  Taking a page from that playbook, was it possible that the heist of the Tattinger had a similar scenario? Hermione had hamstrung her own board of directors in a similar fashion, but with a couple of differences. This place was in the middle of nowhere. The Gardner was in Boston. This place had few visitors, mostly because the only paintings displayed were minor ones. Hermione only allowed the “good paintings” to be shown four times a year en masse and once in awhile as the centerpiece paintings in the main courtyard, a courtyard that was damp, thanks to the reflecting pool, and infused with light from the glass roof.

  But as I sat there, noticing how few visitors came through, I was struck by another thought. The museum surely invested and reinvested the trust money it possessed, but without income from visitors, wasn’t it losing money? The building itself was created to house those paintings that Hermione collected. The board of directors and the curator had to work within the confines of that will. What if there was no money left? What if th
ose minor paintings were stolen because they were expendable? I considered the missing works. Two Cassatts done as quick studies. A Gustave Courbet nude. A Pissarro pastoral scene. Three Monets of water lilies, but done when he was in failing health. What if one of the goals of the thief or thieves was to force the museum to make the necessary improvements to the building or, even more likely, to shut it down and send the “good paintings” to a more reputable museum, one that already had the proper security and climate conditions? Wouldn’t that leave an empty building to sell?

  As the pieces all fell into place for me, I thought about Nora’s plan for Cadell’s Castle. She was formulating her plans on the assumption the museum would still be there, down the road, when her grand opening rolled around. She had begun to make serious plans in the last year or so, checking with town officials on the zoning regulations and potential construction limitations. What if someone got nervous that the plan for Cadell’s Castle would prove successful?

  Chapter Nine --

  I considered the possibilities. As Cadell’s Castle grew more popular as an event space, it was likely to draw more tourists to the area, encouraging other businesses to open. Soon, this quiet little town in the middle of nowhere would blossom into a quaint art colony, which could then piggyback onto the nearby tourist attractions, like the Goodspeed Opera House, and the area inns and restaurants, like the Copper Beech and the Gelston House. Soon there would be plenty of reasons for tourists to visit, thanks to Nora’s dream.

  Maybe that was the problem. What if someone couldn’t afford to have the Tattinger become a successful museum? What if it was already too late to return the missing money from its accounts? If there was a plot afoot to bleed it dry, the cover-up would have to include a heavy emphasis on how few visitors came through and how unsuccessful efforts to generate positive public relations were. Those account books would take a beating from investigators, wouldn’t they? Too many questions about missing money and not enough about how the money was deliberately and willfully manipulated out of legitimate accounts and into the pockets of the embezzler.