What Evil Lurks in Monet's Pond: A

by Barton, Sara M.

  I went over things in my own life, looking for clues. A few months ago, I had given up my townhouse in Virginia, at my handler’s request. The CIA wanted to relocate me to the tri-state area, in anticipation of boosting my portfolio appeal by getting me more gallery showings in New York. I put all my belongings into a storage unit in Haddam, gave my tenant notice that the townhouse was on the market, and arranged to stay with Nora and Andrew when I returned from two months painting in Germany. On that trip, I did a series on old streets in the historic districts of several villages, staying at little hostels. Then I moved on to the port cities, and spent three weeks painting scenes of the docks. For that, I had a “borrowed” flat in a building that was populated by many immigrants. Every day, I would go off and work on my canvases. And when I came home, I would observe the comings and goings of three men suspected of being members of a new terror cell, the Golden Arm of Islam.

  What had I done when I returned from that trip? I stayed with my sister and brother-in-law once again. I was ensconced in the tower room. Nora told me to just treat it as if it were my home away from home, at least until I could find myself a place near the city. She was lobbying to keep me around, suggesting that I try Branford, Milford, or any of the towns along the Connecticut shoreline that offered apartments and condos. I could take the Acela train into the city. No need to drive. And that way, I would be close enough when I was around to be able to pop around for dinner.

  Nora and I had actually started looking for a place for me on my last trip back, two months ago. I had returned from California that time, after following the coast down from wine country to San Francisco. The CIA thought it would be beneficial if I did a couple of larger canvases, because they wanted me to start selling limited editions of my work. Budget cuts at Langley. If I could raise the money to support myself, with a little help from my friends, the money saved on my salary could pay for the other necessities of intelligence operations. I had no problem with that. As soon as I returned from California, the canvases were shipped to the printer, who then turned them into prints in several sizes. They were for sale at about thirty different print shops, and according to the statistics I saw, the prints were a moderate success in the marketplace. Marty would be a better judge of that once he took a look at my numbers.

  What if Anna Szabo thought I was here to investigate her criminal activities? What would have convinced her that was the case? I hadn’t gone to the Tattinger. On my visits to Bothwell Castle, I had spent a lot of time going back and forth to New York, trying to build relationships with people in the art world. Elise Ulbricht had been helping me.

  What if I wasn’t the only one in those WikiLeaks to be exposed? Elise could have been a target, too. So, maybe the dead man factored into this more than I thought. If only Elise was able to recognize him. For that reason and that reason alone, I downloaded the best of the five photos I took of the deceased and attached the file to an email. He looked like he was sleeping peacefully, except his bed was made of snow. In a brief note to her, I detailed how I stumbled onto the body. I warned her not to publish the photo, since it wasn’t really for public consumption. Then I crafted a blog post about life’s twisted events for this stunned artist. She could share it with her readers. I made it all sound very mysterious, wondering if there was any connection to the recent theft at the Tattinger Museum.

  Twenty minutes later, as I was delving through material on Hermione and the Count, I heard a little ding! and saw a reply from Elise.

  Great blog entry. I’ve already posted it. Interesting stuff about the museum theft. Did you know that Anna Szabo just returned from Hungary? She’s a real character. The museum has a big annual meeting coming up and Szabo is lobbying hard to get Thomas Wittman off the board. Wittman is a Post-Impressionist art collector. She also wants to get rid of Clara Bowlens, the art historian who has protested many of the changes Szabo made to the museum when she got herself elected as head of the museum board. Bowlens wants to bring back the scholarships and students.

  As for the dead man, his face looked familiar to me, so I checked back. About two years ago, I did an article on Damien Fisher, a painter out on Long Island. Very contemporary stuff. Nothing to write home about. But I interviewed him a couple of times for the piece. It turns out he was born in Hungary. He didn’t like that I found that out. Real name is Damek Fischer and he has an arrest record long enough to choke a horse. The guy is a fake. If he was hanging around the museum, it’s possible he was there to do some forging. Maybe Anna needed to take out the weak link with a little wet work.

  Ah, code for an assassin. Is that how Damek Fischer wound up dead? And with that phony business card in his pocket? Was Anna doing a clean-up on Aisle 4, using her forger as the red herring?

  If the CIA was looking into the Szabo criminal organization, there had to be a connection to something big. Money-laundering. Internet crimes. It didn’t have to even be intelligence-related, did it? What it had to do to get on the CIA’s radar was pose some kind of threat to US interests.

  And for Anna Szabo to plant that syringe in Nora’s vase in the hopes of implicating me in Damek Fischer’s murder, she had to believe the CIA was closing in on her activities, and it was only a matter of time before she was stopped. Clearly, the Hungarian honey thought she could buy enough time to finish what she was doing and get out of the US before the FBI pulled her in. Maybe that’s why Ross was coordinating with the New York field office.

  What if Anna and her gang needed to loot the Tattinger for the money? Hungary is a big European center for money-laundering, and the more businesses they can concoct to look like they produce legitimate revenues, the easier it is to clean the cash. The art business is great cover.

  The CIA would have a serious interest in getting a foot into the organized crime in Hungary, especially through Anna’s gang. Pornography, human trafficking, drugs -- they all are businesses run by some very nasty people, and with a number of former security people joining up to get in on the profits, that made the business of the Tattinger Museum not only a national security issue for the FBI, but also the CIA. One hand washing the other. Maybe that’s why I was encouraged to give up my place in Virginia, in favor of new digs in New York. Because folks would count on me to turn to my sister for help in relocating. And they would expect me to show up at Bothwell Castle. Did they also arrange for Anna to believe I might be CIA? Is that why she planted that syringe? I’m supposed to look like a CIA assassin? What am I expected to do, whack my target with a paint spatula? Force turpentine down his throat? Force him to eat lead paint until his brain fails?

  Then again, doesn’t it make you wonder what’s in that syringe? I was curious. Curious enough to take it to the cops and ask them to run a check on it. That’s actually what I did. I called Lieutenant Gromski, who graciously agreed to meet me at the station for a little pow wow. When I handed the bag over to him, he took one look at the package and shook his head.

  “You’re really something,” he commented as he unwrapped the first bag, leaving the second intact.

  “I’m guessing there aren’t any fingerprints on the syringe, since she was wearing gloves, but I thought I would be careful anyway. We don’t actually know what’s in there, do we?”

  “No, we don’t. But there is something we do know. Anna Szabo once worked as a prostitute, according the the FBI coordinator I spoke to in New York. In fact, they are sending a team to take over this case.”

  “They are?”

  “Ms. Szabo hangs out with a pretty rough crowd in her native country. And far from being a relative of Viktor Szabo, the whole thing was a scam. Just between us, the FBI is looking at the museum heist as a much bigger fraud. The museum is missing close to $4 million from its various trust accounts, and it looks like the gang found a lot of loopholes to exploit. If she leaves the country before they finish the investigation, it’ll be tough to extradite her and recover the money.”

  “But why target my family?” I wondered. “I’m an artist.
My sister is in public relations. I don’t get it.”

  “Your sister was telling people in town that she was about to launch a new business. A lot of folks are interested in what she does with Bothwell Castle. My best guess, Ms. Carr, is that Anna Szabo was worried your sister would bring too much attention to the Tattinger at a time she was trying to run it into the ground.”

  “So this isn’t about me?”

  “Good heavens, no!” he laughed. “Why would it be?”

  Ah, the mark of a CIA spy. We always assume folks are trying to get at us in some way. Professional paranoia. It’s a mindset that helps us stay alive. I wasn’t completely sure that Lieutenant Gromski was correct in his theory. I still thought the CIA was a target because of the WikiLeaks. But I was more than happy to hear him say he didn’t think it mattered. I even left the police station thinking things would now proceed smoothly. Boy, was I wrong.

  Chapter Thirteen --

  When I came back to Bothwell Castle after I left the police station, I saw Marty’s car in the driveway. Hopefully, that was a good sign -- that he and Alberta had begun their dialogue. Nora was making phone calls in the library. Aunt Clementine was sitting in the living room, reading the latest New York Times bestseller. Andrew was with her, doing the crossword puzzle on the sofa. I made my greeting and then excused myself to head up to the Robbie Burns room. Don’t ask me why, but I had an enormous urge to take a long walk up to Monet’s Pond. I needed to see it again. I kept feeling like I missed something the day I found Damek Fischer’s body. I threw on my thermal underwear under my jeans and sweater, and then I pulled on my winter boots. This time I would be warm.

  Gesso was being tickled on my aunt’s lap as Clementine sat on the loveseat. The pair of them looked so contented in their mutual love fest, I decided to leave the dog behind. That turned out to be very fortuitous, in light of the events that transpired. I grabbed a flashlight from the kitchen on my way out the back door, just in case it was dark when I returned.

  It was just after three when I reached the pond. I figured I had about an hour and a half before the sun would slip away. Thinking back to the other day, when I came upon the body, I tried to remember the exact location where I stood when I stumbled upon Damek Fischer. The many investigators had trampled the snow crust on their way to and from the scene, but I recognized the spot by the indentation in the snow where the victim’s body lay and the icy footprints that still wore the marks of forensic science.

  Once I found the spot, I followed the trail away from it. I was still curious about Fischer’s journey. Why had he come to this pond? How had he even known it was here? According to Matt Gromski, the preliminary exam suggested that the victim was strangled, using his own scarf. That explained why I didn’t see any signs of trauma. There was no blood, no obvious wound once the killer re-tied the scarf around Fischer’s neck. I could still picture that red scarf. Who would have guessed it was the murder weapon?

  But that really wasn’t what brought me up here. As I gazed out on the white surface of the pond, I tried to remember what it was that bothered me. I’d had some time to study the landscape as I waited for the police to arrive. What had I seen? Footprints by the bridge. They seemed to stop in the middle of the bridge. But it was more than that. There was a hole in the ice just below the bridge.

  What was Fischer doing on the bridge? Did it have anything to do with the art heist? Only one way to find out.

  Before stepping onto the bridge, I looked at the boot prints in the snow. It looked like a couple of people had followed Fischer’s path, but for one difference. According to Gromski, the victim had been dead at least thirty-six hours before I found the corpse. And in that time, the snow on top of the pond had frozen, thawed, and frozen again, with three more inches added in between. That also meant that the ice in the pond had done the same. If the pond was ice-free when the Hungarian died, any item he dropped in had most likely made its way over to the dam, a mere ten feet away, and from there, fell into the small stream below. And that stream never really froze because the water was constantly in motion.

  I felt a tiny bubble of excitement pop up into my conscious mind. What would he have dropped into the water? The missing artwork? Szabo could claim that the reproductions of the missing paintings were legitimate. It wouldn’t have seemed all that unlikely that the museum’s board of directors had photographed all of the artwork, and since digital prints were easy enough to make if she had access to the paintings, once the photos were approved for the art prints, there was no longer any need to hold onto the originals. Did that mean Fischer was instructed where to ditch them?

  Maybe it was also true that there was no longer any need to keep Fischer around. Had Szabo killed him or was that a job for someone else?

  I left the bridge and skirted the snowy banks of the winding stream. How fair would those canvases have traveled? I tried to imagine. Were they rolled up or just loose? Were they in a bag? Were the paintings weighted down?

  “Excuse me,” said a heavily accented voice behind me. “I am lost. Can you help me?”

  I turned to see the man who spoke those words. Heavy set. Dark hair, dark eyes with big bags under them. Thick hands. I noticed he played with his scarf.

  “You’re trespassing,” I announced. Nice going, Maisie. You’re out in the woods, alone and unarmed. This is the time you decide to antagonize the killer?

  That’s right. I knew the minute I saw him that he was the man who killed Damek Fischer. What’s more, he knew that I knew. And even as I tried to figure out how I was going to get away from him, he began to tell me his life story.

  “I grew up on a farm in Kolontar. As a boy, it was my job to strangle the chickens. I got to be very, very good at it. So good, in fact, that when it came time to die, the chickens came to me of their own volition. I tell you think now because we both know there is no point in you trying to run away. It does not matter what you do. I will still catch you and strangle you. But if you cooperate, I will be kind. I won’t make you suffer.” His arrogance was amazing. He actually expected me to walk up to him and let him kill me.

  “Wow, you’re truly a great humanitarian,” I scoffed. Frankly, I was in no mood for a necktie party. As I backed away, I tried to think of where I would go, how fast I could put some distance between us, and what I was going to do to get some help. I considered pulling out my cell phone and dialing 911, but that seemed like something that would aggravate the killer.

  “I don’t do this because I like to take lives. I happen to be good at it. It is a skill that many people pay me lots of money to use.”

  “Your mother must be proud.” I could see him slowly making his way along the snow, trying to close the distance between us. He slipped a couple of times, giving me hope. Perhaps he was less an agile gazelle in the snow than I. Perhaps my advantage was my training as a cross-country runner. I was used to running in snow. I was experienced in taking the hills, in pacing myself. This man was already huffing and puffing. I could see the tiny puffs of mist as they left his mouth. But even more important, I realized as I watched him maneuver his way around me, he had given this speech many times before, to his previous victims. He was used to saying those words. He was used to his victims being so horrified at the thought that they were about to die, they would inadvertently and unconsciously surrender to him. That’s how psychological warfare tactics work. It’s a head game, and if your opponent gets inside yours, it’s likely to be game, set, and match before you even have a chance to serve the ball.

  “Please,” he cajoled me, “don’t make this any harder than it has to be. You are a nice girl. You do not wish to suffer. I do not wish to make you suffer. I like the pretty girls. Under different circumstances, I would be a very nice lover for you.”

  The thought of this man’s hands on my flesh made me want to vomit. It was enough to get me moving. By the time I put my first foot down on the bank and my second on the boulder in the middle of the stream, I could already hear the starter’s
whistle in my head. I already knew the route I would take, and I knew what my advantage would be. I was across the narrow body of water before the hit man realized what was happening.

  Once on the other side of the stream, I headed up and along the ridge, on the back side of Monet’s Pond. But rather than run the distance around it, I headed straight for the ice. I figured it was thick enough to support my body weight, especially if I was moving so quickly that I was faster than the cracking ice. Sure enough, once I started across, I just kept going, even as I could hear the ice splitting in my wake. Pumping my arms furiously, working my legs as hard as I dared, I could see the distance to the trail back to the castle was falling away. Another hundred yards and I would be there. I could hear the Hungarian man now swearing at me as he sidled across the ice. And then I felt a terrible rumble under my feet, and the ice began to part as if I were on a fault line in an earthquake. Not daring to look behind, I kept going, steeling myself to pull out that little extra bit of energy. Don’t hold back, Margaret Dawson Carr! You can do this! This is for the big championship, girl. Fifty yards. Forty yards. Thirty yards. Don’t think about going into the water. It’s okay if you do. Think of it as a triathlon. You’re a swimmer, too. And when you get to the hill, you will cover the cross-country portion of the race course by sliding on your fanny as far as you can go.

  The ice finally broke open just as I got to within fifteen feet of the bank. I took that last stretch with some discomfort, forcing myself to belly flop on the ice, and when I reached solid ground, I scrambled to my feet as quickly as I could and I booked it down that trail like I had a rocket pack on my back.

  I made it to the house in record time, and even as I started up the back steps, I could see police cars coming up the driveway, their lights flashing. Changing course, I ran to meet them, breathless, but relieved.

  “We had a report of a woman being menaced,” said a uniformed officer. “Is that you?”