What Evil Lurks in Monet's Pond: A (13 page)

“Can you describe him?” Officer Ajax wanted
to know. I gave her a complete rundown on what transpired,
including the man’s claims that he was a killer back in his native
village of Kolontar. Moments later, as we were in the kitchen,
Lieutenant Gromski arrived with a couple of uniformed state
troopers. The hunt was on. They even brought Rin Tin Tin along to
sniff the man out. My family had the good sense to step into
another room, leaving me with the lieutenant and a couple of local
cops for the debriefing. We were soon joined by a pair of state
troopers in uniform.

While I sat at the farm table, surrounded by
folks who wanted answers, I explained what drew me to Monet’s Pond,
about my theory that the missing paintings might be in the water. I
left off the part about Anna Szabo being involved in organized
crime back in Budapest. After all, I’m just supposed to be an
artist, not some crime-busting superhero.

“What I don’t understand is why didn’t the
killer just throw the needle into the pond after he murdered the
man. Why did Anna Szabo bring it here?” I asked the lieutenant. He
gave me a satisfied grin.

“The needle had nothing to do with the
murder. It’s all about Ms. Szabo’s claims. You’re supposed to be an
addict. The needle contained traces of morphine. She needed to
leave it in your sister’s house because she was setting you up for
the fall.”

“Me?” Even knowing what I knew, I was still
stunned. “Why?”

“I think we’ll leave it to the FBI to explain
all that to you. They’re sending a team here first thing in the
morning.” The lieutenant’s radio crackled to life. The conversation
got lively, with a lot of back and forth. He spoke into the
microphone several times, until he finally said, “Roger that.
Out.”

I waited until he finished to ask Gromski
what they found. Closing his notebook, he looked up at me.

“I have good news and I have bad news.”

“Bad news first,” I told him.

“The man who threatened you has not yet been
located. We’ll increase patrols in the area and have a couple of
uniformed officers check in a couple of times throughout the
night.”

“Shoot,” I exclaimed. “I was hoping you got
the bastard.”

“Looks like the bad guy is on the run,” one
of the cops announced. “But we’ll get him if he comes around
here.”

“I hope so,” I agreed. “What’s the good
news?”

“We recovered the missing paintings, tossed
in a couple of museum bags that were tied to a cement block. It
wasn’t heavy enough to keep all that canvas submerged.”

“Ah, interesting.” I paused a moment, still
processing the information. “Lieutenant, does it really make sense
to you that the thieves would just dump those canvases? Even as
minor works of art, they’re still worth quite a bit of money,
aren’t they?”

“True,” he nodded. “You’d expect them to sell
them off the market, to a collector willing to keep their
secret.”

“But what if they couldn’t sell them?” I
asked the assembled group.

“What are you getting at, Ms. Carr?” one of
the uniformed troopers wanted to know. His name tag read “Quinn”. I
looked at him as he waited for a reasonable answer and realized all
the pieces of the puzzle were falling into place for me.

“What if there’s another reason for getting
rid of the evidence? And the dead man?”

“Like what? The paintings are forged?” Matt
Gromski inquired, his eyes suddenly alert.

“And they already took possession of the real
ones a long time ago, when they were sent out to be digitally
photographed as part of the museum’s collection. The fake ones were
returned in their place.”

“Which means they authenticated the fake
paintings when they photographed them for the museum,” he reasoned,
“instead of the real ones.”

“Would that be a motive for the murder?”

Chapter Fourteen --

“Of course it would,” said Trooper Diaz.
“They probably needed those paintings gone so we would forever be
looking for them. Without them, all we have are the digital
photographs as the evidence.”

“And the scraps of canvas that were left in
the frames on purpose. If the real ones were ever located and
tested, they wouldn’t match the physical evidence left behind in
the robbery, and the real paintings would be labeled as
copies.”

“Wouldn’t the forger have had to use the
right kind of canvas for the job?” Quinn wanted to know. “The age
of the material, the types of paints he used, the finishes....”

“But that’s just it,” I agree, my excitement
growing. “That’s why it was so puzzling that the thief took those
specific paintings. There were older, more valuable works. Why
those?”

We sat around, tossing out ideas, trying to
puzzle this out. There had to be a reason.

“The kind of paint, the kind of canvas was
easy to obtain?” one cop suggested.

“Those paintings were already well-documented
on the Internet, so faking them was a slam dunk?” offered
another.

“I know I’m missing something important here,
something I should know,” I groaned, shaking my head in dismay.

“Is it the subject matter,” Gromski wondered,
“or the technique?”

“No,” I sighed. “But you’re close.”

And then I had it. It was so simple.

“Maybe they were the easiest paintings to
copy. The Cassatts were from the end of her career, when the artist
was plagued with health issues. She suffered from diabetes,
cataracts, and other woes, so the two paintings bore those
marks.”

“Making them inferior to her earlier works?”
Diaz inquired. “If they were off a little bit, it would be blamed
on illness?”

That left the Pissaro, the Courbet, and the
three Monets. How did they fit in?

“Did the other artists also have physical
problems that affected how they painted,” Gromski wondered.

“Let me just see,” I replied. A quick Google
search on my smartphone told me what I needed to know. “The Pissaro
could have been from the time period when he was plagued by an eye
infection, leaving his artwork to suffer. The Courbet? He was
abusing alcohol. And the Monet? Those were done when he had his
cataracts, so his colors were thrown off.”

“So, to sum it all up,” said Trooper Quinn,
“the reason the thief picked these paintings to steal was because
they were so easy to fake. But that means someone kept the real
paintings.”

“Those are now somewhere in Europe most
likely.” The lieutenant made some notes on his pad.

“Which means that dead guy up in the field
was probably the forger,” Diaz concluded.

“Looks like it,” the lieutenant agreed. “And
it looks like it’s a good thing the FBI is taking this case over.
This is more than crossing a state line or two. If this goes over
to Europe, it could connect to just about anyone or anything, from
drug traffickers to organized crime. No, I’m not sad to say goodbye
to this case. You, on the other hand, Ms. Carr, are probably going
to be very busy.”

“I am?”

“Whoever forged that business card of yours
had plans for you. The FBI is going to want to know all about
that.”

“Ah, indeed,” I nodded as I tried to figure
it all out. Is this a good thing or a bad thing? Do I get to spend
more time with Ross in New York, or will the FBI try to claim turf?
I wondered how Ross would take having competition for my time and
attention. That might not be a bad thing.

Once I saw the law enforcement contingent to
the door, I got back to the real world. Dinner was a group effort
and everyone had a job, with the exception of Allie and Marty, who
were busy talking. Aunt Clementine and I chopped vegetables and
mashed the potatoes. Andrew carved the baked ham. Bowie ladled the
soup into bowls. Nora’s boys set the table while Annabelle poured
the ice water. Georgie was put to work uncorking the wine.
Broderick popped his head into the kitchen to say that he, Bertie,
and Cara volunteered to do the clean-up. Nora, wiping her brow with
an exhausted hand, accepted their offer. At last, we were ready to
eat. We all took our places at the table, passing around the
serving bowls.

Looking around at my family as we ate, the
other night seemed like a distant memory. I could see Aunt
Clementine chatting with Annabelle and Georgina, Broderick
challenging Bertie on a point of law, Cara and Nora laughing about
something that tickled the pair of them. Finlay challenged the
younger generation to a Rock Band 2 contest after dinner. Bowie
seemed to be watching his parents through fresh eyes as they
chatted. He looked like he had begun to grow up a bit, and when his
mother sought to include him in her conversation, he excused
himself to get something in the kitchen. I followed him out, where
we found Andrew making coffee.

“Nice party, Andy,” I told him.

“Nothing like what will come in a few
days.”

“Ah, New Year’s Eve,” I agreed.

“Nora doesn’t know it, but the boys have a
surprise for her. They’ve been busy all week, lighting the
backyard. It will be a winter wonderland of twinkling white
lights.”

“How sweet,” I replied.

“Of course, they’re having their own guests
out in the barn, Bowie. You’re more than welcome to join them or
the adult party. It’s up to you. You’re at that in-between age,
aren’t you?” Andrew pointed out.

“Yeah, that means two parties, doesn’t it?”
he grinned. “Lucky me.”

“Best of both worlds,” I laughed, giving him
an affectionate squeeze.

I found out just how motivated Ross was to
take our relationship to the next level when he called Nora’s
landline as we were having dessert and asked for me. I had no idea
who was calling me on the house phone.

“Hello?” I stepped out in the hallway to get
away from the raucous conversation in the dining room.

“Pack your bags, babe. You’re coming to New
York tomorrow, with me. We’ve got interviews with the FBI and I’m
the CIA liaison on the case, but the Department of Justice has
informed the FBI Assistant Director in New York that we’re the lead
agency on the case and they have to work it through us.”

Figures. Ross jumped on this like it was
pirate booty.

“Szabo is heading for Hungary tomorrow. She
booked a flight from JFK that leaves first thing in the morning.
She also pulled out all of her people, which is why we’re having
this conversation now. It seems that when her hired hit man went
after you a little while ago, he wasn’t expecting to be interrupted
by a hunter out for deer in a bright orange Elmer Fudd hat and
armed with a hunting rifle.”

“You?”

“Me. When I hailed him, he took one look at
my rifle and took off. I called the cops to let them know you were
being chased.”

“Thanks.”

“My pleasure.”

“Why didn’t you stop him?” I’ve worked this
cases long enough to understand that if the CIA wants someone badly
enough, it’s a done deal.

“He got in touch with Szabo and told her that
he knew you weren’t really CIA when you took off like a terrified
rabbit. You didn’t have a weapon on you and you didn’t try to fight
him. That’s part of why she’s leaving early. They decided to cut
their losses and run. She knows the cops recovered the stolen
paintings in the stream.”

“Yes, but why not just hang around and wait
it out?”

“The first thing investigators are going to
do now that they have the paintings back is turn their attention to
the Tattinger again. Once we publicly learn about Damek Fischer, we
get the Hungarian connection, and then it’s a hop, skip, and a jump
to the fake count and the fake relatives of the fake count, which
brings us to organized crime. If they’re going to salvage anything
from this operation, they need to get their ducks in order now and
cut out, letting their Hungarian accomplices take over.”

“Oh,” I sighed. “But why me? Why my
family?”

“Nora’s plans for the castle. Szabo was
afraid she would convince other board members, the ones not being
bribed, to hold out hope for the future of the museum. Szabo was
desperate to smear you and Nora, so that the Tattinger Museum could
go under. If it had, her gang would have reaped all the profits
without ever being detected. They planned this operation to last
three years, and then your sister had her brilliant idea a year
ago. When they were checking her out, they stumbled on the fact
that you’re an internationally recognized artist who lived in
Virginia. They assumed you were CIA.”

“That’s why you cut out of our
relationship?”

“I had to, babe. Szabo’s gang was asking
questions all over Eastern Europe. They’re the ones who got your
name listed on WikiLeaks. We had to deflect attention away from
you.”

“And now?”

“And now, I have a legitimate reason for
meeting you for the first time. You see, they outed you as a CIA
officer. They even suggested you were a government assassin. Their
efforts officially put you on the CIA’s radar, and I am assigned to
the case. No reason why you and I can’t meet and fall in love.
We’ll have plenty of eyewitnesses tomorrow when the FBI brings you
to New York.”

“Clever.”

“I am. But then, let’s not discount I have a
clever girlfriend.”

“Oh?”

“The state troopers are very impressed with
you, mostly because you made them look good. They’re making sure
everyone knows the role they played in recovering the fake
paintings. The cops think you’re just a very savvy artist with a
sharp brain, my love. And on that note, I’ll say goodbye until
tomorrow.”

“Just one question.” I caught him as he was
about to say goodbye. “Are we or are we not spending New Year’s Eve
together this year?”

“Sure. We can get reservations for a
Manhattan hotspot. Or we can get cozy in a luxury suite in some
fancy-schmancy hotel. Whatever you want, Maise.”

“My sister and brother-in-law are having a
New Year’s Eve party, here at the castle.”