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 prof
iting 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.”
“Right. Oh, right, that’s a good idea, Maisie. Sure, I’ll come for dinner.”
“Tell you what. Turn on the news, listen to a story about the case, and then call Nora’s landline. Explain how worried you are because Alberta and Bowie might be in danger. And then....”
“I forgot about Bowie being up there, too. Now I have an even better excuse to visit.” Poor Marty. He jumped at the chance to take the job. He jumped at the chance to see his wife. He jumped at the chance to use his son as his explanation to see his wife. I wondered if Alberta would blow this big opportunity by being her usual dumb A.S.S. self.
“Any questions?” I asked my pupil.
“No. None at all. But, Maisie, I would like to say one thing.”
“What’s that, Marty?”
“Thanks for calling me. And thanks for not hating me for leaving Alberta.”
“Marty, whatever happens between the two of you, it’s your relationship to work out. I can’t fix what’s broken. That’s something you have to decide to do together. You can both get bitter and nasty or you can eat a slice of humble pie and decide that you both need to make the effort. Who knows? You might find you still separate, but without all the animosity. It’s really all about respect, isn’t it? Make it a priority for both you and Alberta, and I’m sure you’ll manage just fine.”
“Sage advice,” he decided.
“Not bad considering I’m the single one, right?” Lord knows Alberta had thrown that in my face many times over the years. I heard a soft chuckle on the other end of the line. “Bye, Marty.”
“Bye, Maisie.”
About twenty minutes later, I heard the house phone ring as I sat working on my laptop in the library. I was trying to write out my theory of what happened at the Tattinger, so I could present it to Lieutenant Gromski. I needed him to pass it to the FBI, so that Ross could be consulted on the case. The dogs were curled up together in front of the fireplace on Elmore’s dog pillow. Alberta and Bowie were playing backgammon at the table.
“Marty? Hi,” I heard Nora say. Alberta’s head shot up faster than a gourmand at a comfort food festival.
“Marty? Is Nora talking to Marty? Is that your father on the phone?”
“Relax,” Bowie told his mother. “Be cool. Don’t be too anxious. Make him sweat.”
Oh, great. Advice from the peanut gallery. What is it with only children that compels them to act like pe
rsonal advisers to whichever parent feels most alienated? It’d be one thing if they actually had the training to provide sound advice, but this boy was about to throw another wedge between his parents, one that could ruin everything. Alberta was an only child, too, and she used to get right in the middle of her parents’ arguments. Probably part of the reason her parents split when she was fourteen. She hated to be the third wheel, so she always scooted right into the center of every event. Maybe that’s why she’s such a butt-in-ski now. It never occurs to her that hers isn’t always the right answer. All it takes is a lot of confidence and a loud voice, and suddenly you’re an expert.
Me, on the other hand -- I come from a family of four kids, and the last thing my parents ever asked for was our opinion on their marriage. We were never consulted because my parents left us out of their discussions, arguments, and the occasional shouting match. To them, we were kids, and we were told to butt out and go play on more occasions than I care to recall. It didn’t really matter to them how strongly we felt about the subject or what we wanted to offer in the way of advicd.
“What do I say to him? I don’t want to seem too eager. After all, he’s the one who left....” Alberta was talking out loud, and I saw Bowie poised to take the wheel. No way I’m letting you drive, pal. You’re too young, too inexperienced.
“Allie,” I interrupted, “this is between you and Marty. You don’t need us to put words in your mouth.”
“I disagree,” Bowie started to say, but I gave him my best imitation of a Vulcan death grip as I reached out a hand in the direction of his overzealous face. He immediately backed away before I could grab that nose.
“I will remind you that pride goeth before a fall, Alberta, so consider your true feelings and what you really want. Don’t blow it. Now, if you’ll excuse us, Bowie and I are going for a walk.”
What Evil Lurks in Monet's Pond: A Page 7
