What Evil Lurks in Monet's Pond: A (9 page)

At one o’clock, I decided I had spent long
enough in the glass-roofed courtyard. At least I had an idea of the
avenues I wanted to pursue for the CIA’s investigation. I didn’t
really think there was any terrorist plot to steal the paintings.
There wasn’t even an artist’s passion behind the effort, no desire
to save the museum. It was good, old-fashioned greed that drove the
crime, and the goal was to shut down the Tattinger once and for
all, so those trust funds could remain in the dirty hands of the
thief.

Of course, even as I drove back to Bothwell
Castle, I wondered where the missing paintings were. What would an
embezzler do with minor works of art?

Half way up the long driveway, I suddenly
braked. I was so stunned by the idea that popped into my head, it
took my breath away. What happens when you cut a painting from its
stretcher? You change the size of the painting. And when you change
the size of the painting, you obscure the connection to its
original condition. A lot of artists nowadays take their paintings
and have them professionally photographed to become Giclée prints
-- done with special inks and archival quality canvases and papers,
the limited editions often sell for hundreds of dollars. The art
reprint field is enormously profitable for an artist who has a
popular painting. But a limited edition is only valuable if it’s
truly limited to a certain number of reprints.

In the middle of the driveway, on a sunny
winter’s day, a good quarter mile from the castle, I stopped the
car. I believed I solved the motive behind the art theft. What I
hadn’t solved was the murder of the man by the pond. Monet’s Pond.
That’s what Nora called it when she and Andrew first bought the
place. “Maybe someday we’ll build a red bridge across the little
brook that feeds it,” she once told me. “We’ll add some lily pads
and let the artists come to paint, and then the visitors will have
a taste of what it’s like to be amongst serious painters in an
artist’s colony. Will you come, Maisie, and paint your wonderful
pictures?”

I had promised my sister that if she ever
detangled the overgrown woods and prettied up that little pond, I
would be happy to take my chair and easel kit up there. And she had
spent the last two years doing just that. Or rather the landscape
architect she hired had.

A sudden rap on the passenger window startled
me. With beating heart, I glanced up to see Ross appear. He pointed
to the door lock and I popped it.

“Penny for your thoughts,” he greeted me.

“What are you doing here?”

“I asked you first.”

“I think I know why there was an art heist,
and I think it has something to do with my sister’s plans to create
Cadell’s Castle, an event space and intimate inn. She wants to
bring business to this little burg, and I think whoever’s been
embezzling from the Tattinger wants to stop her.”

“Hence the dead body on the trail?” Ross was
studying me carefully.

“And I also think I know why it was an artist
who was killed.”

“Do you?”

“I think he must have been a part of what was
going on. If the embezzler has the paintings and plans to market
reproductions of them, he or she stands to make a fortune on the
museum quality limited editions.” I shut off the idling engine.
“People will pay a lot for really good reproductions, Ross,
especially limited editions.”

“But why not just take photographs for the
museum and let it profit from the sales?”

“I think the embezzler wants to shut down the
Tattinger and sell the masterpieces. I have to wonder who profits
from the demise of the Tattinger.”

“That’s an easy question to answer,” he said
with a grin. Oh, how I missed those beautiful eyes looking at me
that way. As I felt my resolve slip away, as I felt that old tug
towards Ross, I fought hard.
Keep to your plan, Maisie. You want
more. A few hours of lovemaking isn’t enough anymore.
“The
money goes to Viktor Szabo’s family.”

“The phony count? How is that possible?”

“They were legally married,” the experienced
CIA officer told me. “And about ten years ago, his heirs in Hungary
got together and sued to have one of their members placed on the
board of directors. Did you know that the Tattinger used to provide
art scholarships for area college students? In exchange for
financial support, they were required to donate their works to the
museum, and the museum held onto them until such time as the
artists began to gain in popularity. The idea was that the museum
would benefit from the effort to support the artists. You’ve heard
of Tate Achincloss, right?”

“Contemporary artist. He does those big,
square canvases of color blocking. I’ve seen some of his work. It’s
almost a blend of Impressionism and Contemporary, with an ethereal
feel. Nice stuff. Why?”

“The Tattinger just sold one of his works for
$566,000 at auction.”

“Whoa!”

“So, why did Anna Szabo organize the vote to
dismantle that program?”

“To close the museum and get her inheritance
up front?”

“Exactly.”

“Oh, dear. I think I know what they’re doing,
Ross. They’re pirating copies of the limited editions and selling
them on the side, out of sight of the Tattinger. And maybe if the
Tattinger is no more, there’s no one to question exactly how many
limited editions there are to be sold. They can forge all they
want.”

“It’s a digital age, babe. It’s like these
digital books that self-published authors sell at Amazon, Barnes
and Noble, and all the other retailers. The up-and-coming authors
post their digital files, and as the sales begin to show promise,
the bots pick up interest in the authors. They need enough traffic
for the books to siphon off a percentage of the sales. They bury
their criminal activities in the sales programs within the
retailers’ websites. The criminal syndicates mask it as an ‘agent’s
fee’ for helping the author sell more books.”

“It doesn’t show up on the author’s tally of
books sold?”

“Nope. The authors never know there’s anyone
else getting a percentage of their sales. And it doesn’t take
anything away from the retailers, so they don’t care if the
publisher doesn’t get all the profits. As far as they know, the
retailers are paying everyone what they are owed.”

“That’s sleazy,” I decided. “You think
they’re doing the same kind of thing with the art prints?”

“Why not? It’s a web-based business, right?
You only have their word for it that a print is a limited edition.
If the Szabo family is as involved in organized crime as I believe
they are, they’re doing most of their business back in Hungary.
They could be laundering money for just about anyone, masking the
sales as legitimate. Drug cartels, terror organizations,
criminals....”

“Is that why you’re here?”

“Your family is a target, babe, thanks to the
WikiLeaks. I’m here to accomplish two things. I’m going to make you
a minor star in the art world, because you’re going to help the FBI
solve this case. And I’m going to give myself a legitimate reason
for meeting you and falling in love with you.”

“You are?”

“I am. I was going to try and pull something
off when you went to Madrid in March, but why wait? If the Szabos
are interested in looting the rest of Hermione’s estate, we might
as well take advantage of the situation ourselves. Besides, that
dead artist was deliberately left there so that your sister would
drop her plans for the castle.

“You think there’s still a chance to save the
Tattinger?” To be honest, I had mixed feelings about it. What’s the
point of having a museum no one ever visits? Then again, if it were
to support future artists, that could be a very positive thing,
couldn’t it?

“Did you know that a couple of art schools
were interested in taking the Tattinger over? They wanted to buy
the building, lock, stock, and barrel. The Szabos put the kibosh on
this.”

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Blackmailing other board members? Oh, yeah.
Definitely. How else do you explain the consistent votes that are
diametrically opposed to the museum’s best interests?”

“Maybe some of the board members are
financially profiting from their cooperative votes,” I suggested.
“Maybe Anna Szabo is funneling kickbacks their way.”

“Could be.” I caught him glancing at his
watch.

“You have to be somewhere?” Even I could hear
the disappointment in my voice. Ross reached over and pulled on a
strand of my hair.

“Never fear, Maise. I have your back.”

“If only you also had my front,” I sighed
forlornly. I admit I was aching for Ross’s touch. He always had a
knack for pushing the right buttons on my body and sending me into
ecstasy with his manipulative hands. Wouldn’t it be nice to be able
to lay in bed with him and not have to worry about being
discovered?

Chapter Ten --

“Oh, I’ve got a plan for that, too,” he
winked, slipping out of the passenger seat. “But for now, I have to
go coordinate things with the FBI field office in New York. We’re
just about to discover a dangerous criminal organization in Hungary
that has penetrated the US in search of economic gains.
Szabo-dabo-doo!”

“Crap!” I growled, restarting the engine. I
threw the car into ‘drive’ and continued on.
Forget about your
love life, Maise. You can’t do anything about that. Concentrate on
the case, girl.

WikiLeaks. The Szabos must have researched my
name. After all, I was beginning to show my work overseas fairly
consistently. And my sister was busy moving forward with the plans
for Cadell’s Castle. She wanted to draw attention to the Scottish
version of the American Impressionists, the Colourists. That would
only enhance the Tattinger’s collection of minor artworks and those
amazing masterpieces. The more I thought about it, the more I could
see that if the museum could begin to use its money wisely, it
could actually become a viable avenue not only for encouraging
future artists, but also for selling limited editions of the
artists like Tate Achincloss. The Szabos seemed determined to stop
that from happening. Why kill the artist?

And then I wanted to kick myself for not
asking Ross who the dead guy was. Maybe I could figure out why the
Szabos picked him to lure to Connecticut. Then again, was he
actually murdered? I didn’t see any blood on the body when I
looked. Maybe after lunch, I would give Lieutenant Gromski a call
and offer my services as an art expert. While I was at it, I could
also hook him up with art blogger Elise Ulbricht, the CIA watchdog
in New York. If anyone had her ear to the ground on this art heist,
it was she. It might even get us some dirt on the Szabo family.

I helped myself to some of Nora’s minestrone
soup, ladling it right out of the Crockpot she had sitting on the
counter. She was working at her computer at the pine table.

“How’s it going?” she wondered.

“Better,” I admitted, knowing it was true.
Not only was I going to save my sister from the creeps who wanted
to ruin her plans for Cadell’s Castle, I thought I knew exactly
what I was going to do for Alberta.

I took Gesso and Elmore for a walk as soon as
I was done. I tossed snowballs for the pair in the backyard,
letting them romp for a good twenty minutes. I composed the
conversation in my head, went over all the fine points I wanted to
cover. And then, when I felt like I had a serious handle on the
situation, I headed into the house, got myself comfy in a big arm
chair in the library, and then dialed my cell phone.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Marty. It’s me, Maisie.”

“Oh, hi.” He sounded unsure, but that was
normal for him.

“Listen, I know you’re a CPA with a lot of
experience. I was wondering if I could hire you.”

“Never a good idea to work for family,
Maisie. I can recommend someone.”

“I want you, Marty, because this is very
important and very hush-hush. I’m in need of someone who can do
forensic accounting. I want to know if my art prints have been
pirated.”

“What do you mean pirated?” Ah, the man is
showing some interest. Perfect, I said to myself. He’s
intrigued.

I spent the next ten minutes outlining the
situation. And then I tossed the man the biggest bone he’d ever
seen. “Marty, if we can make the connection between my artwork
being pirated and the murder of the man found in Nora and Andrew’s
field this morning....”

“Someone was murdered up there? Is Alberta in
any danger?”

“We hope not, Marty. Still....” I let my
voice trail off.

“I’m sure the police are handling it.”

“Well, to tell you the truth, Alberta’s been
a complete mess. Just this morning, she had a crying fit like you
wouldn’t believe!” I confided conspiratorially. “You know, Marty,
if you came up here and took a look at my sales for me, no one
would have to know you were working for me. It could be our little
secret. And at the same time, you could stay here and keep an eye
on Alberta. I’m sure Nora wouldn’t mind giving you your own room. I
know you and Alberta are separated. We can certainly respect your
desire to keep your distance. Or, if you like, I’ll spring for a
hotel room. I think I can get you into a motel down in Essex if you
want.”

“I don’t know.” I could hear those wheels
turning. “I’m settled into my new place, as you know. But I could
drive up and get the material to review, Maisie. I’m only an hour
away.”

“True. You can drive up here for the day. Can
you stay for dinner?” Don’t push the man too far, I reminded
myself. “It will give me a little more time to get all the
information you’ll need. And it will also protect your cover
story.”

“My cover story?” he asked in wonderment. Ah,
a babe in the intelligence woods. I forgot.

“Well, we don’t want the family to know about
this, right? At least not until you find solid evidence we can turn
over to law enforcement.”