What Evil Lurks in Monet's Pond: A (4 page)

“You know, dear, you never need be ashamed of
who you are.”

“Oh?” For the life of me, I didn’t really see
where the conversation was going. After all, artists can be a
respectable breed. We’re not all out there making a mockery of
religion or politics. Some of us just love the illumination of
light on a subject, whether it’s a piece of fruit, a bridge, or a
face.

“If you ever want to talk, you can come to
me.”

“Thank you, Aunt Clementine.” I hugged her
with great affection. “I certainly will.”

“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about, loving
another woman.” As she said that, I suddenly saw the light. This
sweet, caring woman, who remembered everyone’s birthday and always
sent cookies, was living a secret life of her own. All those years
of talking about her boss’s family were deflection from the source
of her real strength, her best friend, Linda, the boss’s daughter.
Even as I took her hand in mine, she realized the truth.

“No,” I agreed. “It’s nothing to be
embarrassed about. Any more than I should be embarrassed about
loving a man who isn’t available at the moment.”

Her hand was cold in mine and I could feel
her fear. I wanted her to know that I would not betray her. It was
her choice whether or not to be public about her own love. It was
hers to claim. It’s not my place to betray a trust.

That’s the thing about working with secrets
every day. You come to understand the power they have. A lot of
people think that anything goes these days. Put it all out there.
They don’t always understand the reality. People like Aunt
Clementine would be shy no matter who they loved. Just like Alberta
would be a noisy lesbian, if she played on the other team.

Over time, Aunt Clementine came to realize
that I really was on her side, and at every visit, she would share
more of her private life with me -- the ups and downs, the joys of
her days, the dark nights of her soul, her successes and failures.
And now, as we all sat at the table, I saw her pale face, drained
of blood, as she watched the family kick around the issue of having
a lesbian in the family.

“Why are we even discussing this?” Nora
finally demanded. “I want you all to know right now that I don’t
care a fig if anyone at this table is gay or heterosexual. It
doesn’t matter to me. I just want everyone to be happy and kind. We
should be focusing on respecting one another and finding the common
ground.”

“Personally,” added Broderick, “I’m tired of
all the politics around the subject. Let’s just agree that we are
family and forget about our differences.”

“Here, here,” said Annabelle, raising her
glass.

“To us,” Bertie declared. We all joined in,
but even as I toasted the others, I could see Alberta glaring at
me. Merry Christmas, I thought to myself. Gesso, my little Yorkie,
pawed at my leg.

“Time to take the pooch out,” I told the
group, excusing myself.

On the way out the dining room door,
Broderick followed me.

“Hey, sis!”

“Yes?” I turned on my heel and gazed up at
that receding hairline of his, the still youthful smile, and the
earnest eyes.

“I just wanted to say that if you were, I can
accept that.”

“If I were what?” Gesso wiggled in my arms as
I tightened my grip on her.

“It’s...it’s okay if you...you know....”

“What in God’s name would possess you to
still believe I am gay?” I hissed, not wanting to rouse Alberta for
another performance of “Nosy Knows Best”.

“Look, I know about what happened with Keith
Heublein.”

Chapter Four --

“Excuse me? Are you talking about that dork
you set me up with on a blind date fifteen years ago?”

“He told me....”

“That I rejected his advances?” I took two
steps closer and got into my older brother’s face. “The guy
actually thought I was going to sleep with him on the first date.
Not to mention the fact that he told me he only agreed to go out
with me so that you could get a settlement for your client. And you
have the audacity to assume this is evidence I’m gay? Holy cow, you
really are thick!”

With my blood boiling, I stomped off down the
hall. I had a good mind to pack up my things and head back to my
townhouse. I had just put it on the market, something I hadn’t told
the family, save for Nora. I planned on moving up here because of
my work plans. That would serve my idiot family right, wouldn’t it?
Poor little Gesso had no idea why I was so upset. She licked my
face with her tiny tongue, trying hard to make me happy again.

“Idiots,” I groaned. “I’m surrounded by
idiots!”

I gave myself ten minutes out in the cold
December night, trying to put aside my frustrations. Maybe it
wasn’t my family I was so angry with -- maybe it was the fact that
I couldn’t have the love I wanted and needed. I was tired of going
without, of making adjustments, of always being the one to
sacrifice. Or maybe it was the fact that giving up my place in
Virginia after all these years had me worried that my relationship
was ending. After all, we spent so little time together now. How
could we get together more often if I was farther away?

“Give me strength, Lord!” I gave an
exaggerated groan, raising my head to heaven. For a moment, I
realized I was only half kidding about the plea. The other half of
me actually wanted some help.

“Come on, sweet thing. Let’s go back inside.”
The dog and I let ourselves into the mud room. I took a deep breath
and rejoined the gathering as the family milled around the dining
room, having the last few conversations of the day. The chairs were
pushed in, the last of the coffee and wine consumed, and we all ran
out of things to say.

The party broke up shortly after that. I
helped Andrew wash and dry in the kitchen, while Nora packed up the
leftovers. Aunt Clementine and Georgina collected the glassware,
while the rest of the gang stacked the dishes and gathered the
silverware for the trip to the kitchen. When we were done, we all
scattered, most to their assigned sleeping quarters. I found myself
a seat in the living room, in front of the Christmas tree. Gesso
curled herself up on my lap. Sparks sizzled and popped on the
burning logs in the nearby fireplace. I looked up as Bowie entered
the room.

“Look, I just wanted to tell you that my
mother meant well. She’s very upset that this spun out of control.”
He plunked himself down on the sofa across from me. “Hey, I’m okay
with it. I understand you want to keep your life a secret.”

I gave myself a minute. I took a deep breath.
And then I exhaled slowly. It didn’t help.

“What?”

“I won’t tell.”

“Won’t tell what? What is there to tell,
Bowie?” My voice got louder and louder as I got past the need to
reign myself in. It was time for a good offense. “What do you think
you know that you don’t know?”

“I know you’re a spy, Maisie.”

Don’t ask me why, but I burst into giggles. I
should have been upset. I should have cringed. But I just was so
relieved, I didn’t care. I’m used to hiding the fact that I spy for
a living. This, I told myself, I can work with -- it’s just a
matter of deflecting his attention. As I stood there, looking at
this cock-sure little twit with the knowing nod, I laughed. Like
mother, like son.

“I’m a spy? Oh, that’s rich. That’s really,
really rich.” Even as I shook my head, I suddenly started to
realize why I was wearing a wedding band for Langley. With my back
to Bowie, I composed myself as he went on.

“I saw your name on the list.”

“The list?” I scoffed. “What list, pray tell,
is this?”

“WikiLeaks.”

“Oh. Well, that must make it true. And how
does WikiLeaks know I’m...a spy?” I whispered in a hushed voice to
give it some emphasis.

“You’re on the watch list.”

“The watch list?”

“Yup.”

“You know what, Bowie? I’d like you to get me
a copy of the list you saw.”

“Why? So you can pass it to your bosses at
the CIA?”

“Hell, no. I want it so I can sue the pants
off the idiot who put me on the list. I’m going to make myself a
fortune.”

“Uh, Maisie, that’s not the reason for the
list. It’s to out the spies.”

“And a fine job they’re doing of it,” I
pointed out. “First, you and your mother presume I’m gay because I
don’t drag a man to these cheerful family gatherings. Now you’re
accusing me of being a spy. And you wonder why I don’t share my
life with my family? Why would I ever want to do that with people
who are so...so untrustworthy and disrespectful?”

“I’m not like my mother,” Bowie insisted. “I
can accept you being gay.”

“Oh, mighty white of you, kiddo. And if I
were a spy, could you handle that, too?”

“Well, that’s different.”

“Why?” I got right up to that naive face and
steeled myself to do battle. Poor little Gesso tucked herself
behind me as I got started. “Because you know what it takes to run
a country and protect it from bad guys? Because you think that
world peace consists of painting happy faces on every surface you
can find and slapping ‘Mean People Suck’ bumper stickers on
everything? You think you’re a good person, Bowie?”

“Look, I’m not....”

“I asked you a question. Do you think you’re
a good person?”

“Of course I am,” he bridled. “I’m very tuned
into this planet and I do my part to clean it up.”

“I’ve got news for you, Bowie. You’re a
fraud. You wear the mask of being a good human being, but when it
comes down to it, you and your mother are two peas in a pod. You
feel entitled to information, so you grab at the tiniest morsel and
fill in the blanks. And then you have the gall to act on that
information, on the assumption that it’s all correct and you
understand the implications of it all, when in fact you are one
huge ignoramus. Guess what. You’re not smart, you’re not nice, and
you sure as hell don’t have a clue about what matters in life. Now
get out of here, you sanctimonious little jerk, and take your
filthy, disgusting assumptions with you!”

As far as I was concerned, this was the last
family reunion I would attend. From now on, I will live my life
without this nonsense. If the Carrs don’t like it, the Carrs can
all go lump it. Enough is enough.

I pulled poor little Gesso out of from behind
me, scooping her up in my arms. What a big, fat mess this all is, I
told myself. Good thing I had an art heist to solve, because
otherwise, I’d be out of here.

I actually am a spy. I have been for some
time. And I did plan to spend a week with my sister and
brother-in-law. But I didn’t expect to land in the middle of an art
heist investigation. That happened when the Tattinger was robbed
and folks at Langley wanted to know if there’s any chance that
terrorists or drug traffickers stole those paintings to use for
cash to finance their operations. I got a call two days ago, from
Elise Ulbricht, asking me if I would be willing to write a guest
post on her art blog, detailing what I could find out about the
robbery. Elise is actually a CIA analyst in New York, who maintains
a number of blogs devoted to subjects that seem as unrelated to
intelligence work as anything you’ve ever seen. She has a degree in
art history and a gallery of her own, and as a dedicated blogger,
she’s interviewed some of the top artists in their fields. It’s
really a communications system to track information in a very
public forum.

Unless I missed my guess, the CIA also knew
that I was on that WikiLeaks list of CIA agents. Time to call in
reinforcements? I wasn’t sure.

Wondering how I became a spy? It’s kind of a
long, complicated story. On my first trip to Europe, I ran into
some trouble when I found myself targeted by Hassan, a young
student who turned out to be a Hezbollah operative. He lured me
into a disco one night for dancing and offered to buy me a drink
while I went to the ladies room. As I came out, I observed him
furtively putting something into the glass. I slipped out the front
door of the disco and never looked back. Taking flight, I got as
far away as I could, boarding the tube for the trip across town.
Should I go back to my hotel? What if he was waiting there for me?
What if he had friends with him? I knew no one in this city. Who
could I turn to for help?

Needing a chance to think, I decided to get a
cup of coffee. Alone at a tiny table in the nearly deserted
restaurant, enveloped in my loneliness, I drank it. What if Hassan
pursued me? The front door opened and several people entered. That
caught my attention, breaking my miserable, self-inflicted fog
called worry. Suddenly, I found myself surrounded by a bunch of
strangers in the small café in Holland Park. One by one, they
settled at the tables all around me and my anxiety level went sky
high.

I thought they were friends of Hassan’s, but
they turned out to be Mossad agents. That’s right. Israeli
spies.

“Hello, pretty lady,” said a handsome man
with eyes the color of the Mediterranean Sea. “I am Amos. May I
join you?”

“I...I don’t think,” I started to say. He cut
me off.

“May I see your purse, please?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your purse.” He didn’t bother waiting for my
answer. He simply reached over and took it from me. He dumped out
the contents on the table and picked up a pen knife. With a
slashing motion, he separated the lining, reached his hand in, and
pulled out a floppy disk.

“What is that?” I was stunned. Back then, I
was just a new college graduate, fresh-faced, trusting,
vulnerable.

“Your little friend Hassan has been a very
naughty boy.”

“I don’t understand.” It was true. I had no
clue.

“You are on your way to France, are you
not?”

“Yes. How did you know that?”

“We will keep this, but we will have one to
give you in its place. Come back here tomorrow morning before you
catch your train. You will find a man sitting at the table next to
you. When he offers you his newspaper, take it. Just be sure to
leave it behind when you go.”