What Evil Lurks in Monet's Pond: A (7 page)

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 don’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.”

“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.”