What Evil Lurks in Monet's Pond: A

by Barton, Sara M.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Bowie laughed.

  “Afraid not,” Nora acknowledged. “It’s a vault in the middle of the museum’s interior courtyard. You can’t get to the galleries without passing it.”

  “I guess that was Hermione’s way of making sure everyone knew who was the boss,” Broderick added.

  “What kind of an ego do you have to have to do something that...ostentatious?” Cara wondered.

  “Actually, if you think about it, she was probably very lonely. She cut off her family when she started marrying up, and by the time she was on her fourth husband, she was so rich, she was invited to all the big parties,” I told them. “And then, when the fake count took off with her money, she was probably mortified, especially after the Depression hit and so much of her wealth was wiped out. Maybe she thought of the museum as the child she never had.”

  “Speaking of which, isn’t your biological clock ticking?” Alberta asked me from across the table.

  “Meaning?”

  “Well, dear, you don’t have that many years left to get pregnant.”

  “Oh, and you think I should?”

  “If you want to be a mother.”

  “I’m still deciding,” I replied, hoping we could move on in the conversation. Alas, the A.S.S. whinnied and took off for the races.

  “Really, Margaret Dawson Carr,” she tut-tutted me. “You have to plan these things out. You’re not always going to have the looks and figure.”

  Bite your tongue, Maisie. Just bite it. Don’t say anything, because you know that if you do, you’ll say something so over the top, Alberta will hold it against you for the next twenty years.

  Then again, I paused, is that really such a bad deal -- comment that could shut up the opinionated meddler for a couple of decades? Let me get out my American Express card and run it through the new smartphone app. I’m willing to pay just about anything for that priceless look on the face of Alberta Susan Scott.

  “It’s so kind of you to want to spare me that pain,” I replied sweetly, letting my eyes fall on her ample girth. “But you seem to have handled it all well.”

  Wham! I felt a size ten loafer dislodge my right foot from its position under the table. Broderick was warning me, big brother that he was. I ignored his glare.

  “Excuse me?” For once in her long life, Alberta was nonplussed. That had to be worth at least a grand. Even as I maintained eye contact, I could see Bertie grinning as he sat several chairs down the table from me. Cara was trying to hide her amusement behind her red napkin.

  “Well, if anyone understands my predicament, surely it’s someone like you. You chose motherhood, didn’t you?”

  “I don’t see what the fuss is all about,” Georgina cut in. “After all, when I had my Alison and my Gwyneth, I only gained twenty pounds with each, and the daily trips to the gym helped me get back in shape in less than two months. There’s no reason why women should shy away from childbirth. It’s just a matter of taking care of one’s self. Clearly, I have not lost my looks to the ravages of time.”

  Oh, Georgie. Look at you go. You’re still precious, aren’t you? You managed to slip that dig in at the same time you built yourself up. You know, for a scientist, Georgina had a really snarky side. Looking at her now, two seats down to my right, I could see the velvet skirt and the sparkling top. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a clip at the base of her neck. Large gold earrings and a matching necklace picked up the reflection of the chandelier’s glow. Alberta, on the other hand, was a good thirty pounds overweight, in keeping with her overbearing nature and lack of restraint. Her short dark curls framed a plain face that usually bore a tight expression. I always chalked that up to the fact that she had no real sense of humor. She looked like modern female version of Cotton Mather, dressed in a dark, shapeless tunic and a crisp white cotton blouse. On her feet were thick-soled, very sensible black shoes. The attire of a Puritan. Suddenly I realized why she married the ever-bland Marty. He was hardly a man to make demands in the sack. If anything, he was a “Yes, Dear” kind of guy. For all her social recognition as a harbinger of right living, Alberta really was repressed. Maybe if she let down her tight curls once in awhile and unclenched her buttocks, she might be a lot more fun to be around.

  “You recommend motherhood, Georgie?” I took the bull by the horns, now curious at where this could lead. After all, my cousin had married at twenty, had the girls by twenty-three, and still managed to get herself through college after she dumped her husband, Russell, in favor of her physics professor, Dr. Steinglitz. That relationship lasted until she left for the California Institute of Technology’s Cell Polarity Lab.

  “It has its pitfalls and plinths,” Georgina admitted. “You have to take the good with the bad when it comes to children. Still, I’d do it again.”

  “What about you, Dad?” Annabelle poked her father in the side. “Would you have kids again?”

  “Short answer? No. I know now that I was meant to be a wealthy sailor, trimming the sails on the ocean blue. Kids get in the way of all that.”

  “Dad!” The shocked daughter recoiled at her father’s low blow.

  “I’m teasing. Of course I would have children again. You’re the light of my life.” He gave her a big grin, but Annabelle wasn’t ready to buy it yet.

  “It’s not like you’re ‘Father of the Year’,” she shot back, still licking those wounds. Now that I was out of the spotlight, I went back to musing on the museum.

  It took five years to construct it out of Portland brownstone, dug from the quarry just up the river towards Hartford. Almost as impractical as Bothwell Castle, Bothwell Manor was an imposing mansion with rooms designed to be spacious for the crowds that Hermione imagined would one day walk through its doors. I had studied the brochure carefully, in anticipation of a visit. With galleries opening onto galleries around a center courtyard that was filled with natural light from the glass roof, the museum was all hard surfaces and tiny windows. It sat on a rise that overlooked the Connecticut River in the distance, not a tree in sight. But the foreboding impression one got from looking at the ugly imposing structure wasn’t the biggest problem. Bothwell Manor was in the middle of nowhere, far from the other tourist attractions. Other than Gillette Castle, now attached to a state park, there was nothing really around, unless you count the Goodspeed Opera House across the river. There weren’t any local restaurants to rave about on this side, or quaint little inns to lure tourists.

  Maybe that’s a big part of why it was the site of a $2.1 million heist. Was it really all that surprising that the thief got away with the crime? Think about it. No witnesses to see the getaway car. That’s because the museum never bothered to install motion activated lights or sensors of any kind on the outside of the building. Sure, there were security cameras poised over each gallery door inside the museum, and the monitors were located in the security office, but nothing outside the brownstone walls. In this day and age, that’s almost unheard of, isn’t it?

  “If you ask me, this place was ripe for the picking,” Andrew said. “The museum is so antiquated in its approach to security. Think about it. All that land for miles around, two security guards on duty during the day, and one at night. On the night of the big heist, the chump was sitting behind a bank of monitors, watching the proverbial paint dry.”

  “Maybe it was an inside job.” My younger brother poured his wife some more chardonnay.

  “Can we really believe the board of directors never expected anyone to hit that museum?” Broderick had his legal cap on. “Why, at the very least, would you not take the minimum security precautions?”

  “How much did they spend on their security program?” Bertie wanted to know.

  “Actually,” said Nora, “I heard from Denise Atkins that they just cut it back. She’s a docent. She said the board is going to meet to discuss the wisdom of their decision.”

  “I saw on one of the news reports that the thief got the drop on the guy when he went to the fridge
for his meatball sub and diet Coke.”

  “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.”