What Evil Lurks in Monet's Pond: A (3 page)

“I have a problem with the timeline,” Alberta
informed us. “The security guard claimed he was restrained and
blindfolded by the thief, who then spent the next hour removing the
paintings from the walls of Bothwell Manor. And yet he cut the
canvases from their frames. If there was no need to rush, why not
just take the framed canvases? It’s not like folks were going to
inconveniently interrupt the robbery.”

“You have a point,” said Broderick. “What
doesn’t make a lot of sense is that the cops said there were no
signs of a break-in. How did the thief get in? Did someone let him
in? Did he hide in the museum and wait until everyone had gone
home, except for that one guard?”

“Why did the thief come in the back door and
go out the front?” Georgina wondered.

“Did he?” Bertie asked.

“That’s what the police claim.”

“If he got in the back door, maybe it was the
easiest lock to pick.”

“But where did he leave his car?” Bertie
wanted to know. I could see my brother was getting hooked on the
potential storyline for a documentary.

“Or truck,” Cara suggested.

“Maybe he had an accomplice,” Aunt Clementine
offered. That got my attention. What kind of accomplice sits
outside for an hour? Was he the lookout? Or was that vehicle hidden
away until the thief was ready to bring the paintings outside? An
accomplice would explain why the thief came in the back and went
out the front.

“The thief really seemed to know a lot about
the Tattinger,” said Georgina.

“Maybe he cased the museum,” Andrew
decided.

“Or he was an employee of the security
company.” Aunt Clementine put her fork and knife on her plate,
before lightly dabbing her lips with her napkin.

“Or a former employee,” Cara pointed out. “He
could have left the company.”

“Indeed,” agreed the elderly lady, nodding
with enthusiasm.

All this was definitely food for thought. I
had six days to figure this out before I was due in the Azores for
a series of paintings on Angra do Herosímo.

“Nora, that was delicious. As usual, you
outdid yourself.”

“Thank you, Maisie,” she smiled graciously.
“I’m glad you enjoyed it. And I’m glad you’re staying with us for
New Year’s Eve. It will be such fun!”

The conversation spun around the plans for a
large gathering to welcome in 2013 with a bang. Once folks got
going, I went back to my preliminary mental inquiry on the heist,
nodding once in awhile as my mind raced through the facts.

The most surprising result of the brazen
theft was that the world found out that the museum actually had
some true masterpieces in its collection. This came out amidst the
speculation that there might be a possible connection to the
Gardner heist back in 1990. It became public knowledge that the
Tattinger had three Monets, two unknown Cassatts, a Rembrandt, a
Vermeer, a Rubens, and a sketch by Leonardo DaVinci. The museum
kept these in its vaults, away from the public eye. Normally, the
museum only displayed one of these masterpieces at a time in the
great hall. The small card beside the work of art would read that
it was on loan from a very special collection. There was never any
mention of the fact that it was part of the Tattinger’s inventory.
Instead, patrons of the arts were forced to assume the special
painting of the month came from the collection of an outsider.

Chapter Three --

That’s because the board of directors was
forced to comply with the wack-a-doodle will of Hermione Wells
Tattinger, which was almost as irrevocable as gravity. It seems she
took her cue from Isabella Stewart Gardner. The treasures would
remain under lock and key for much of the year, while the
“everyday” paintings were displayed for the daily public to view.
On the rare occasions that the masterpieces were taken out of their
hiding places and put on the walls in an interior gallery that had
only one door through which to enter and depart, extra security
personnel were always present. This occurred exactly four times a
year, as the seasons changed. The museum would send out exactly one
hundred invitations to a special gala evening. The guests were
carefully vetted by Fields Security, the caterers were screened for
drugs and criminal convictions, and the board of directors each
took part in the festivities. You might assume that the purpose of
the evenings was to raise funds for the museum. Wrong yet again, my
friend, although I will admit that was my guess, too. No, the
purposes of the galas was to pay homage to Hermione. The February
evening was to celebrate her birthday. The gathering on the third
Sunday afternoon in May was to celebrate her founding of the
museum. In September, people came to the museum to commemorate her
passing. But it was the December concert that was the most
important of all. It was to recognize her as the benefactor of the
Tattinger Museum’s Annual Christmas Party. Talk about an ego.

What if one of the thieves from the Gardner
heist was involved in the Tattinger theft? Would he have used the
same methodology? Was it really a one-person job? The first order
of business tomorrow would be to establish what, if any,
connections linked the two events.

“Who wants plum pudding?” my sister asked. We
all looked around the table. Aunt Clementine, always kind, had the
best answer.

“Just a teensy-weensy taste for me, darling.
I just can’t handle rich food as well as I once did.”

“Well,” laughed Nora, “in that case, who
wants a slice of chocolate torte cake?”

“Ah, you got us once again, didn’t you?”
Bertie thrust his plate at her. “I’ll have a big slice, please. And
I’m going to say that I think there’s something tremendously fishy
about that museum. What kind of place only gets out the good stuff
a few times a year? How can they make any money?”

“Interesting question,” I acknowledged. That
was Bertie. Always trying to sort through the information to get to
the heart of a story. “It’s the only non-profit I ever saw that
wasn’t involved in fundraising by promoting its treasures. Not even
selling art cards of their best paintings.”

“Maybe we should go there for a visit,” Allie
suggested. “We’ll all have a look around and we can reassemble
after and discuss the case.”

In case you haven’t figured out about Alberta
Susan Scott, she sees herself as an expert on just about anything.
That’s because she’s the oldest among our generation. She’s always
certain that she knows what’s what, even when she doesn’t have a
clue.

“Sounds like fun,” said Broderick. “I’m
in.”

“Sure, why not?” Annabelle joined the group.
One by one, folks added their acceptance, and by the time the vote
got to me, I had little choice but to be a spoilsport or
participate in the family mystery hunt.

“Okay, I’ll do it.” I didn’t mention that it
was already in the works. The less my family knew about my
investigation of the museum, the better. And if I could get them to
give me cover, all the better, and I’d start by cloaking myself in
Bothwell Castle attire. As a guest, it would be natural for me to
visit the nearby museum. After all, I am a professional artist with
a decent reputation. But I’m more than that, and it’s the part of
my life I can’t afford to reveal to the public. That’s why, when
the museum was robbed, it was so convenient that my relatives were
part of the East Haddam community.

Nora fell in love with the castle despite its
condition, and Andrew went along with her plan to renovate the
ruin. It took them years to update the electrical, add several
zones of central heating. No need for air conditioning in this
place. And ever since, their home was where we celebrated the big
Carr events, like the Boxing Day party the day after Christmas.

The thing about the holiday gatherings at
Nora and Andrew’s is that we all stay at the castle. Lord knows
there are enough rooms. Nora wanted a house big enough to host
parties for her illustrious clients and she got it.

Whenever I came to town, I stayed in the
Robbie Burns room. At the very top, in the tower-like structure, it
was a charming space, considering the fact that it was crammed full
of Scottish antiques trolled from several overseas trips and the
haunting of antique shops throughout the Northeast and Canada. The
big drawback was the fact that I had to constantly keep the gas
fireplace going, because without it, the room quickly grew chilly.
Their gas bills must be astronomical.

The conversation was winding down as I picked
up the thread again. I drained the last of my wine and put the
goblet on the table.

“Time for bed. Come on, one and all. Let us
adjourn for the day,” Allie insisted in her determined way, as
usual taking charge of the family. I, for one, was not having it.
Let her bully Marty. Let her bully her own son. Let her bully the
meek and the mild. I was going to stay downstairs, by the fire, and
bask in the glow of the Christmas tree. The truth is I was feeling
blue, missing my other half, missing the whole hoopla of love and
holiday lights. I wanted the magic. I needed the magic. After all
these years, I was growing tired of always feeling incomplete.
Lately, I found myself wanting to put down roots, needin to feel
like I belonged somewhere, to someone, not just behind closed doors
on covert occasions, during stolen minutes. I was tired of always
finding love on the run.

“I’m going to stay up for a while,” I
announced firmly. “I’m a big girl now, Alberta.”

“Oh, I always forget,” said my cousin with a
sly smile as she glanced my way. “You’re single. That means you
have to sleep alone. I can see why you’re in no hurry to climb into
your empty bed.”

Ah, could someone please get the nice kitty
cat a bowl of milk? And once she’s had her fill, open the back door
and send her out to the barn. She’s definitely not a house cat.

“Gee,” I smiled back, my own claws extended,
“Marty’s not here tonight. Looks like you’ll also be sleeping
alone.”

Marty, Allie’s husband, has a personality
that reminds me of a slice of white bread. No substance, no depth,
no original thought. Allie takes care of that for him, filling him
with what she mistakes for wisdom.

“Poor thing, still jealous, even after all
these years. Maybe now that society is changing its views, you
might find someone to call your own.”

Zing!
Ooh, you got me! I lie
mortally wounded at your feet, cousin.
Time to teach kitty that
others have claws, too.

“What does that mean?” I was pretty sure that
was a veiled remark about the family theory I was a lesbian. After
all, over forty, unmarried, what else could I be? We all know that
heterosexuals get married right after college. Just ask Allie.
“Explain yourself, Alberta.”

“Everyone knows....”

“Knows what?” I demanded.

“It’s okay,” Bowie announced. “We love you no
matter what you are.”

“So, what exactly am I?”

“I’m sure she doesn’t mean anything by it,”
my sister suggested. I knew she was wishing I would drop it, but
I’d finally reached my limit with Alberta.

“No,” said Bertie, being every inch the
youngster having fun at the adult party, “I think she very much
does. What is all this nonsense about, Alberta? Are you suggesting
Maisie is gay?”

“Of course not,” she stuttered, suddenly all
too aware of the serious faces around her. “What I meant was
that....”

“Not everyone is single by choice, Alberta.”
That was Andrew. “Some people are busy with their careers, their
lives. Has it ever occurred to you that there might be a very
different explanation for why Maisie never brings someone home with
her?”

“Such as?” There she goes, getting her second
wind. Even as I sat back and listened, I knew that the one and only
A.S.S. was determined to kick the ball through the goalpost once
and for all.

“Maybe she’s in love with a married man,”
said Cara. If anyone understood that, it was she. Cara and Bertie
had waited six years to marry, while he carefully extricated
himself from his very unhappy marriage.

“Are you?” Alberta demanded, with more than a
little animosity. I picked up the imaginary glove she just whacked
me with and tucked it in my imaginary pocket.

“Let me ask you this,” I demanded. “What
business is it of yours who I sleep with or who I love? I’m an
adult and I don’t need your permission to live my life the way I
choose.”

“I knew it!” she crowed triumphantly. “I was
right!”

“Were you?” I sat back in my chair, suddenly
satisfied. “While we’re at it, it’s inappropriate for you to
address a Christmas card to me and my tenant, as if we are a
couple. Lydia is not my lover. Never has been, never will be.”

The truth is my townhouse in Virginia is too
big for me alone, especially when I am on the road so often. I took
in a tenant a few years ago, a young woman who takes good care of
the place in my absence and is willing to watch my dog now and
then. Alberta met her when she came to tour DC a couple of years
ago.

“‘Me thinks thou does protest too much,’” she
replied slyly. “I was just being supportive of my dear cousin. None
of us care that you live with another woman.”

“On the contrary, it seems to bother the hell
out of you. Why else would you mention it?”

You might wonder why I decided to go kamikaze
on my cousin. The answer is simple. I do, in fact, have a secret
life. I have since I turned twenty-two. But it’s not what she
thinks.

Even Bowie looked a little confused at my
reaction as he sat next to Alberta. The twenty-something liberal,
so often at odds with his mother’s conservative streak, thought he
was doing me a big favor by helping his mother “out” me. Only
trouble was they picked the wrong closet.

Every family has secrets and mine is no
different. And as the long-suspected lesbian in the family, I was
put into a very unusual position more than a decade earlier. Aunt
Clementine came to me one afternoon, after we had cleaned up the
kitchen from an earlier Christmas.