What Evil Lurks in Monet's Pond: A (8 page)

“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 those 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.