What Evil Lurks in Monet's Pond: A

by Barton, Sara M.

  “We are?” The young man looked rather confused. I could see he expected to be part of his parents’ discussion, and the thought of letting his parents solve their own issues was disconcerting to him.

  “We are. Let’s grab the dogs.”

  Chapter Eleven --

  “I don’t feel comfortable leaving my mother on her own,” he told me as we passed through the kitchen. Nora looked up from her work.

  “Nora, tell Bowie here how many times we helped Mom and Dad settle their arguments.”

  “What?”

  “How often did Mom and Dad consult us on their problems?”

  “What are you talking about, Maisie? They never asked for our opinions. They told us to butt out.”

  “Thanks,” I grinned. “What do you know, Bowie? Not every kid is a referee for parents.”

  “Yes, but my mother....”

  “...is an adult who needs to handle her own problems. You’re the kid. It’s not your job to get in the middle. It’s your job to be the kid.” I grabbed my coat from the mud room and threw it on, waiting for him to do the same. He was fighting with himself, torn between getting involved and backing off.

  “Yes, but my father’s caused my mother a lot of heartache. He left her, you know.” One arm was in the coat sleeve. I waved him into the next.

  “I do know, Bowie. I also know your mother is a very opinionated, strong-willed woman who doesn’t always think things through. And I know your father isn’t always good at expressing his feelings. All the more reason for you to stay out of it. Let them figure out what they want in their marriage, or if they should, heaven forbid, decide to go their separate ways, let them remain civil in their communications. It’s not your place to tell them what to do or how to do it. They need to take responsibility for their own relationship.”

  “But....”

  “The world will not fall apart if you are not there to handle things for them, Bowie. You have your own issues to work on, and your own life to live. Which brings me to my next question for you. What are you studying and what are your plans when you graduate?”

  We were headed down to the small stream that passed through the property, away from where that body was discovered. As we covered the distance, I glanced at the young man beside me. He was so much taller these days, no longer the little boy of long ago. Now he was the college student with the air of confidence, but I saw it slip slightly. Bowie was worried.

  “What’s on your mind?” I asked him.

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Talk to me. I want to know.”

  “It’s just that my dad...he’s changed over the last few months.”

  “He’s had a lot on his mind. Your mom told me he lost his job.”

  “It’s more than that. He’s doing odd things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Oh, he spends a lot of time online. And he’s stopped paying all the bills.”

  “What do you mean he’s stopped paying all the bills?”

  “I can’t take the trip to France next semester, because he won’t pay for it.”

  “Well, did you try getting the money another way?”

  “Like how, ask Nana for it?”

  I groaned, rubbing my forehead. Was the boy really this thick?

  “Do you have a part-time job?”

  “Why would I have a part-time job? Now you sound like my dad! He wanted my mother to go to work, too. But it’s his job to pay the bills.”

  “Really? And what’s your job?” I was curious.

  “I’m supposed to get good grades, Maisie. That’s my responsibility.”

  “Seriously?” Looking him right in the eye, I confronted him. “Bowie, you’re just too old for this kind of nonsense. Do you have any clue what you’re doing to your father?”

  “I’m not doing anything! He’s the one screwing up!”

  “You think your dad is responsible for taking care of you, like you have nothing to contribute to your own life. You should be working in the summers to build up your bank account, so you can buy books and take those special trips. You’re not five years old anymore. You’re almost an adult. It’s time to join the adult world, pal. If you want to take those trips, you’re going to have to come up with the extra money.” I shook my head sadly. “No wonder your dad left.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” he snapped, his anger just barely contained.

  “It means that he’s not a person to you. He’s not someone with hopes and dreams. He’s the guy who pays all the bills, who works all the time, so you can play. You get to be the perpetual kid, happy when the world is your oyster, angry and upset when all your plans are falling apart. What about his plans? What about what he wants?”

  “What he wants?”

  “Bowie, your father is more than just a meal ticket for you to punch. You know all about your mother’s feelings, but you think your dad doesn’t have any. That’s a very one-sided relationship, isn’t it? The guy never had a chance.”

  We walked in silence, each of us lost in thought. Poor Marty. He had been the family joke for so long, and all the guy had been trying to do was survive. No wonder Alberta and Bowie took him for granted. He never spoke up because there was no one to listen.

  Elmore and Gesso trotted along beside us as we turned back towards the house. Bowie was especially distant, taking his emotional ball out of the game and stumbling back to his invisible home. I let him feel what he was going to feel, knowing I couldn’t change that. But if I did nothing else today, at least I could take comfort in the fact that for one brief moment, he had to think about his father as a man.

  When we reached the driveway, Bowie swiped his eyes with his hands and I realized the kid was actually crying. I held back on the comfort front, knowing it was time to let him be a man.

  “I never thought about all that stuff,” he confessed. “You know, my dad tried to explain to me why we have to sell the house, but I didn’t understand it. I thought it was because he wanted a new family.”

  I took a deep breath. Might as well jump in with both feet. “Why do you think your dad wants a new family?”

  “Because he hates us.”

  “Does he? Is that what he said?”

  “No, but he left. Why would he leave if he loved us?”

  “Maybe he felt like he wasn’t important, like he was suffocating under all that responsibility for you and your mom. No one wants to be the only one to hold up the world, Bowie. People need to be needed, but there has to be balance,” I told him. “There has to be cooperation and mutual support.”

  “My dad doesn’t need me.” Even as he said that, I was already correcting him.

  “What? Does that even make sense to you? Why wouldn’t your dad need you?”

  “To do what? All he ever does is work. Only now he doesn’t have a job.”

  “Bowie, you and your dad need to get out and have some fun together. I don’t care what it is you do, but go be with him. Do something you both enjoy. And then, when you’re done doing it, tell me it didn’t make the world a little brighter and your heart a little happier.”

  “He won’t go,” said the maudlin young man, obviously full of self-pity.

  “How do you know if you don’t ask him?”

  “He’ll just say no.”

  “Tell him you need this. Tell him it matters.”

  “But how, Maisie? He doesn’t live with us anymore.”

  “That doesn’t mean he can’t find time for you.” I took his arm in mine and leaned against him. “You have to make the relationships you want in life, Bowie. Don’t ever take them for granted or assume that people know what you want and how you want it. And don’t forget that other people have needs too, and those needs aren’t always just like ours. You have to listen with your heart.”

  Once again, I dragged out that sage advice. Let’s hope I can follow it myself. Don’t let me blow things with Ross. I’m tired of always being on the road. I want to come home. I want to feel I belong in m
y own life.

  “There’s a car coming,” said Bowie, pointing towards the road. Too soon for Marty. Was it Ross? My heart caught in my throat as a glimmer of hope rose, but alas, no. Not Ross. It was a blue Mazda Miata sedan. I didn’t recognize the woman at the wheel, but she certainly looked determined.

  Bowie and I watched her pull her car up to the walkway of the front door. When she got out, with her fur coat and her black jeans, I knew instantly that I was looking at Anna Szabo. What was she doing here at Bothwell Castle?

  “Who’s that?” Bowie’s testosterone kicked in, as did his curiosity. “She’s a fox!”

  “Foxes can bite. And they can carry rabies,” I pointed out to the eager young man as I scooped up the nervous Gesso. Elmore trotted up to the car, tail wagging. The woman ignored him. Very telling. Never trust anyone who ignores a friendly dog. Meanwhile, Bowie lost no time. He hurried to meet her before she reached the door.

  “Hi!”

  “Hi, yourself.” There was no warmth in that greeting. Expectation, maybe. Calculation, definitely.

  “Can I help you?” The eager young man pulled himself up to his full height.

  “I am looking for Nora Johnson.”

  “And you are?” I stepped into the conversation, wanting the details.

  “Are you Nora?” Her tone was disdainful, dismissive. Her hair was very blonde, very curly, and very trendy. Her makeup was flawless, but troweled on so thick, I couldn’t see any actual skin.

  “And you are?” I repeated myself.

  “I am here to see Nora.” Obviously, she knew I was not my sister. I was still certain I was looking at Anna Szabo.

  “Would you like to identify yourself or shall I call the police?” I stood my ground.

  “Geez, Maisie,” Bowie growled out of the side of his mouth. “Is this really necessary?”

  I made a big production of pulling out my cell phone and punching 911. Just as I was about to hit send, she capitulated.

  “I am Anna Szabo,” she quickly told me. “I am on the board of directors for the Tattinger Museum, and I am interested in hiring your sister for a publicity campaign.”

  I nodded curtly and stepped past her, not inviting her into the castle. I wanted a chance to speak with Nora first, to warn her. Besides, the arrogance of the woman already stuck in my craw. “I’ll check and see if she’s available.”

  “Why don’t you come in,” Bowie said behind me, as if he was the host of the castle.

  “Hold on, one minute,” I insisted, as Elmore scooted past me. “It may not be convenient. Please wait here.”

  “You’ll have to excuse my cousin,” I heard Bowie tell her. “We’re all a little nervous since the dead body was discovered up at the pond today.”

  I found Nora in the upstairs hallway. She was talking to Georgina and Aunt Clementine.

  “Hey, Norrie. Can I see you a minute?”

  “Sure.” I watched my sister come down the grand staircase. This really would make a wonderful inn. I could even imagine a bride stepping down into the grand hallway for a picture-perfect wedding here.

  “You have a visitor. Anna Szabo, on the board of the Tattinger. She wants to hire you for a publicity thing.”

  “Really? Why didn’t she call first?” Nora seemed surprised that a potential client would just show up on her doorstep, especially because she had spent so much time and money on her business website.

  “My point exactly. I’d advise you to proceed with caution. A little birdie hinted to me today that the Tattinger may be in some financial trouble. That’s just between us, okay?”

  “Sure,” she agreed. “Now I’m really curious.”

  “You and me both.”

  I went and concealed myself in the library before Nora let Anna Szabo into the castle. I’ve been gathering information long enough to recognize someone who’s dodgy about the truth, and all my senses were on heightened alert with the Hungarian honey. Tucking myself into a dark corner, I hunched down and waited for the show to begin. It wasn’t a long show.

  “I am on the board of directors for the Tattinger Museum, Ms. Johnson. I wanted to ask you if you are interested in doing our summer program.”

  “I will certainly consider it,” my sister replied.

  “Good. Then I will get back to you with the details at a later date.”

  “Oh?”

  “That is all I came to say.”

  “I see. Shall I see you out?” At that moment, Nora’s house phone rang. She ignored it.

  “Don’t trouble yourself,” the cunning visitor told her. “I can see myself out.”

  She did, in fact, walk herself out to the hallway, while my naive sister answered that phone. I, on the other hand, was available to show Ms. Szabo the door, and as I was about to step into the hallway, just to make sure she was able to operate the door knob without instructions, I caught her slipping something into the vase on the hallway console table. As soon as the item was concealed, she hurried to the door and left. The moment she was out of sight, I took a look. A syringe. No wonder she wore gloves, I thought to myself. What did this have to do with the dead man?

  Chapter Twelve --

  I went to the kitchen and grabbed a couple of baggies. Nora was in the process of arguing with someone, the cordless receiver to her ear.

  “And don’t call here again!” she growled. Phone in hand, she pushed the ‘end’ button with emphasis.

  “Who was that on the phone?”

  “Some guy wanting to power wash my siding. Do you believe that? It’s the middle of winter and the guy wants to come and hose down the castle. Why do I bother to list our number on the ‘Do Not Call’ registry if people just ignore the rules?”

  “Why indeed,” I commiserated. “Got any plastic bags? I’m working on a project.”

  “Sure.” Nora opened a kitchen drawer and pulled out a box. Quart-sized. Perfect.

  “Any chance you have some string?” I asked hopefully. She dug around in a different drawer and came up with a ball.

  “Here you go.”

  “Scissors?” I grinned. She shot me a sisterly look filled with good-natured disbelief and feigned impatience. She reached into a utensil canister on the counter and pulled out boning shears. I carefully took the pair she offered out of her grasp. Pulling out about two feet of sturdy cotton chef’s twine, I snipped off the piece. I put the scissors back.

  “Want some crayons and a glue stick to go with all that?”

  “No, I’m good,” I laughed. I beat a hasty retreat before she could ask me what I was working on.

  I glanced around the massive hallway, to make sure no one was on hand to observe my efforts. Slipping one bag on my right hand, I reached in and retrieved the unexpected gift from our Hungarian visitor. No need to obscure any potential fingerprints, although I suspected the lady in the fox fur coat had taken pains not to leave any. Carefully, mindful of the needle on one end, I placed it in the second baggie, rolled it up, and made a hasty retreat up to my bedroom. Why would Anna Szabo hide it here unless she was hoping we would have an official visit from the police? I was damned if I was going to let her get away with this. I found my piece of string, tied it to the bundle, opened the window and then the storm window. With great care, I secured the string to the base of the shutter, tucking the bagged syringe out of sight. Next time I saw Ross, I would give it to him. But in the meantime, if the cops did a search, they weren’t going to find the planted evidence inside the house.

  About an hour later, I was doing some online research into art thefts, trying to figure out a few things. I understood the need to cut the paintings out of their frames. I thought it was similar to the Gardner heist in 1990. By leaving behind the narrow strips of canvas, it allowed the investigators to confirm these were, in fact, the frames of the missing canvases. It made it all seem so much more authentic. But what was missed back then was something very telling. The paintings in question were all suffering from damage due to the poor atmospheric conditions in the mu
seum. I heard from more than one source the stolen artwork had been assessed by a professional framer, who determined that the fabric was beginning to deteriorate. That meant that even if the paint on the canvases was restored, there would still be issues with the integrity of the material on the stretchers. In other words, the thief wasn’t really doing all that much damage by slicing and dicing the artwork. More reason to believe that theory that the art heist was all about improving the museum. In this Tattinger theft, it was a similarity. Was it a deliberate one?

  I thought about Anna Szabo and I thought about Ross. Obviously, the CIA felt it had a need to get involved in this investigation. If I was, indeed, on the WikiLeaks list as a CIA spy, it made sense to create a lot of public hoopla now, to get me out of this mess. But it didn’t explain why Anna Szabo was so interested in me. It’s not like I ever worked in Hungary. Even if she was connected to an organized crime gang that siphoned off profits from Internet businesses, that didn’t really form a connection to me, did it?

  And why come a-calling on my sister that way, pretending she wanted to hire her for a publicity campaign? Unless I was looking at this backwards.

  What if Anna thought I was at the castle to investigate her? What if her guilty conscience led her to believe that I was spying on her at the museum? Maybe the museum had been cover for some nefarious financial dealings all this time, and Anna and her extended family had done a lot more than just loot the Tattinger trust funds. But I still didn’t understand where that artist came into the picture. And I didn’t even know his name. Why did he have a phony business card on his person, with my name misspelled, when he was killed? And what was he doing at the pond? Was he supposed to meet me there? Did he think I contacted him?

  Think, Maisie. Why would this guy have something that looked like your business card on him when he was murdered? Judging from the fact that Anna made such an effort to conceal the syringe in Nora’s porcelain vase, I was pretty certain he was deliberately killed. But why? What would have precipitated this event?