What Evil Lurks in Monet's Pond: A

by Barton, Sara M.

  For a brief moment, I was terrified that someone else in my family was in danger, but then the front door popped open and the Carr clan poured out en masse. All accounted for, I decided. “Yes, there was a man chasing me in the woods. He followed me up to the pond.”

  “Can you describe him?” Officer Ajax wanted to know. I gave her a complete rundown on what transpired, including the man’s claims that he was a killer back in his native village of Kolontar. Moments later, as we were in the kitchen, Lieutenant Gromski arrived with a couple of uniformed state troopers. The hunt was on. They even brought Rin Tin Tin along to sniff the man out. My family had the good sense to step into another room, leaving me with the lieutenant and a couple of local cops for the debriefing. We were soon joined by a pair of state troopers in uniform.

  While I sat at the farm table, surrounded by folks who wanted answers, I explained what drew me to Monet’s Pond, about my theory that the missing paintings might be in the water. I left off the part about Anna Szabo being involved in organized crime back in Budapest. After all, I’m just supposed to be an artist, not some crime-busting superhero.

  “What I don’t understand is why didn’t the killer just throw the needle into the pond after he murdered the man. Why did Anna Szabo bring it here?” I asked the lieutenant. He gave me a satisfied grin.

  “The needle had nothing to do with the murder. It’s all about Ms. Szabo’s claims. You’re supposed to be an addict. The needle contained traces of morphine. She needed to leave it in your sister’s house because she was setting you up for the fall.”

  “Me?” Even knowing what I knew, I was still stunned. “Why?”

  “I think we’ll leave it to the FBI to explain all that to you. They’re sending a team here first thing in the morning.” The lieutenant’s radio crackled to life. The conversation got lively, with a lot of back and forth. He spoke into the microphone several times, until he finally said, “Roger that. Out.”

  I waited until he finished to ask Gromski what they found. Closing his notebook, he looked up at me.

  “I have good news and I have bad news.”

  “Bad news first,” I told him.

  “The man who threatened you has not yet been located. We’ll increase patrols in the area and have a couple of uniformed officers check in a couple of times throughout the night.”

  “Shoot,” I exclaimed. “I was hoping you got the bastard.”

  “Looks like the bad guy is on the run,” one of the cops announced. “But we’ll get him if he comes around here.”

  “I hope so,” I agreed. “What’s the good news?”

  “We recovered the missing paintings, tossed in a couple of museum bags that were tied to a cement block. It wasn’t heavy enough to keep all that canvas submerged.”

  “Ah, interesting.” I paused a moment, still processing the information. “Lieutenant, does it really make sense to you that the thieves would just dump those canvases? Even as minor works of art, they’re still worth quite a bit of money, aren’t they?”

  “True,” he nodded. “You’d expect them to sell them off the market, to a collector willing to keep their secret.”

  “But what if they couldn’t sell them?” I asked the assembled group.

  “What are you getting at, Ms. Carr?” one of the uniformed troopers wanted to know. His name tag read “Quinn”. I looked at him as he waited for a reasonable answer and realized all the pieces of the puzzle were falling into place for me.

  “What if there’s another reason for getting rid of the evidence? And the dead man?”

  “Like what? The paintings are forged?” Matt Gromski inquired, his eyes suddenly alert.

  “And they already took possession of the real ones a long time ago, when they were sent out to be digitally photographed as part of the museum’s collection. The fake ones were returned in their place.”

  “Which means they authenticated the fake paintings when they photographed them for the museum,” he reasoned, “instead of the real ones.”

  “Would that be a motive for the murder?”

  Chapter Fourteen --

  “Of course it would,” said Trooper Diaz. “They probably needed those paintings gone so we would forever be looking for them. Without them, all we have are the digital photographs as the evidence.”

  “And the scraps of canvas that were left in the frames on purpose. If the real ones were ever located and tested, they wouldn’t match the physical evidence left behind in the robbery, and the real paintings would be labeled as copies.”

  “Wouldn’t the forger have had to use the right kind of canvas for the job?” Quinn wanted to know. “The age of the material, the types of paints he used, the finishes....”

  “But that’s just it,” I agree, my excitement growing. “That’s why it was so puzzling that the thief took those specific paintings. There were older, more valuable works. Why those?”

  We sat around, tossing out ideas, trying to puzzle this out. There had to be a reason.

  “The kind of paint, the kind of canvas was easy to obtain?” one cop suggested.

  “Those paintings were already well-documented on the Internet, so faking them was a slam dunk?” offered another.

  “I know I’m missing something important here, something I should know,” I groaned, shaking my head in dismay.

  “Is it the subject matter,” Gromski wondered, “or the technique?”

  “No,” I sighed. “But you’re close.”

  And then I had it. It was so simple.

  “Maybe they were the easiest paintings to copy. The Cassatts were from the end of her career, when the artist was plagued with health issues. She suffered from diabetes, cataracts, and other woes, so the two paintings bore those marks.”

  “Making them inferior to her earlier works?” Diaz inquired. “If they were off a little bit, it would be blamed on illness?”

  That left the Pissaro, the Courbet, and the three Monets. How did they fit in?

  “Did the other artists also have physical problems that affected how they painted,” Gromski wondered.

  “Let me just see,” I replied. A quick Google search on my smartphone told me what I needed to know. “The Pissaro could have been from the time period when he was plagued by an eye infection, leaving his artwork to suffer. The Courbet? He was abusing alcohol. And the Monet? Those were done when he had his cataracts, so his colors were thrown off.”

  “So, to sum it all up,” said Trooper Quinn, “the reason the thief picked these paintings to steal was because they were so easy to fake. But that means someone kept the real paintings.”

  “Those are now somewhere in Europe most likely.” The lieutenant made some notes on his pad.

  “Which means that dead guy up in the field was probably the forger,” Diaz concluded.

  “Looks like it,” the lieutenant agreed. “And it looks like it’s a good thing the FBI is taking this case over. This is more than crossing a state line or two. If this goes over to Europe, it could connect to just about anyone or anything, from drug traffickers to organized crime. No, I’m not sad to say goodbye to this case. You, on the other hand, Ms. Carr, are probably going to be very busy.”

  “I am?”

  “Whoever forged that business card of yours had plans for you. The FBI is going to want to know all about that.”

  “Ah, indeed,” I nodded as I tried to figure it all out. Is this a good thing or a bad thing? Do I get to spend more time with Ross in New York, or will the FBI try to claim turf? I wondered how Ross would take having competition for my time and attention. That might not be a bad thing.

  Once I saw the law enforcement contingent to the door, I got back to the real world. Dinner was a group effort and everyone had a job, with the exception of Allie and Marty, who were busy talking. Aunt Clementine and I chopped vegetables and mashed the potatoes. Andrew carved the baked ham. Bowie ladled the soup into bowls. Nora’s boys set the table while Annabelle poured the ice water. Georgie was put to work uncorki
ng the wine. Broderick popped his head into the kitchen to say that he, Bertie, and Cara volunteered to do the clean-up. Nora, wiping her brow with an exhausted hand, accepted their offer. At last, we were ready to eat. We all took our places at the table, passing around the serving bowls.

  Looking around at my family as we ate, the other night seemed like a distant memory. I could see Aunt Clementine chatting with Annabelle and Georgina, Broderick challenging Bertie on a point of law, Cara and Nora laughing about something that tickled the pair of them. Finlay challenged the younger generation to a Rock Band 2 contest after dinner. Bowie seemed to be watching his parents through fresh eyes as they chatted. He looked like he had begun to grow up a bit, and when his mother sought to include him in her conversation, he excused himself to get something in the kitchen. I followed him out, where we found Andrew making coffee.

  “Nice party, Andy,” I told him.

  “Nothing like what will come in a few days.”

  “Ah, New Year’s Eve,” I agreed.

  “Nora doesn’t know it, but the boys have a surprise for her. They’ve been busy all week, lighting the backyard. It will be a winter wonderland of twinkling white lights.”

  “How sweet,” I replied.

  “Of course, they’re having their own guests out in the barn, Bowie. You’re more than welcome to join them or the adult party. It’s up to you. You’re at that in-between age, aren’t you?” Andrew pointed out.

  “Yeah, that means two parties, doesn’t it?” he grinned. “Lucky me.”

  “Best of both worlds,” I laughed, giving him an affectionate squeeze.

  I found out just how motivated Ross was to take our relationship to the next level when he called Nora’s landline as we were having dessert and asked for me. I had no idea who was calling me on the house phone.

  “Hello?” I stepped out in the hallway to get away from the raucous conversation in the dining room.

  “Pack your bags, babe. You’re coming to New York tomorrow, with me. We’ve got interviews with the FBI and I’m the CIA liaison on the case, but the Department of Justice has informed the FBI Assistant Director in New York that we’re the lead agency on the case and they have to work it through us.”

  Figures. Ross jumped on this like it was pirate booty.

  “Szabo is heading for Hungary tomorrow. She booked a flight from JFK that leaves first thing in the morning. She also pulled out all of her people, which is why we’re having this conversation now. It seems that when her hired hit man went after you a little while ago, he wasn’t expecting to be interrupted by a hunter out for deer in a bright orange Elmer Fudd hat and armed with a hunting rifle.”

  “You?”

  “Me. When I hailed him, he took one look at my rifle and took off. I called the cops to let them know you were being chased.”

  “Thanks.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “Why didn’t you stop him?” I’ve worked this cases long enough to understand that if the CIA wants someone badly enough, it’s a done deal.

  “He got in touch with Szabo and told her that he knew you weren’t really CIA when you took off like a terrified rabbit. You didn’t have a weapon on you and you didn’t try to fight him. That’s part of why she’s leaving early. They decided to cut their losses and run. She knows the cops recovered the stolen paintings in the stream.”

  “Yes, but why not just hang around and wait it out?”

  “The first thing investigators are going to do now that they have the paintings back is turn their attention to the Tattinger again. Once we publicly learn about Damek Fischer, we get the Hungarian connection, and then it’s a hop, skip, and a jump to the fake count and the fake relatives of the fake count, which brings us to organized crime. If they’re going to salvage anything from this operation, they need to get their ducks in order now and cut out, letting their Hungarian accomplices take over.”

  “Oh,” I sighed. “But why me? Why my family?”

  “Nora’s plans for the castle. Szabo was afraid she would convince other board members, the ones not being bribed, to hold out hope for the future of the museum. Szabo was desperate to smear you and Nora, so that the Tattinger Museum could go under. If it had, her gang would have reaped all the profits without ever being detected. They planned this operation to last three years, and then your sister had her brilliant idea a year ago. When they were checking her out, they stumbled on the fact that you’re an internationally recognized artist who lived in Virginia. They assumed you were CIA.”

  “That’s why you cut out of our relationship?”

  “I had to, babe. Szabo’s gang was asking questions all over Eastern Europe. They’re the ones who got your name listed on WikiLeaks. We had to deflect attention away from you.”

  “And now?”

  “And now, I have a legitimate reason for meeting you for the first time. You see, they outed you as a CIA officer. They even suggested you were a government assassin. Their efforts officially put you on the CIA’s radar, and I am assigned to the case. No reason why you and I can’t meet and fall in love. We’ll have plenty of eyewitnesses tomorrow when the FBI brings you to New York.”

  “Clever.”

  “I am. But then, let’s not discount I have a clever girlfriend.”

  “Oh?”

  “The state troopers are very impressed with you, mostly because you made them look good. They’re making sure everyone knows the role they played in recovering the fake paintings. The cops think you’re just a very savvy artist with a sharp brain, my love. And on that note, I’ll say goodbye until tomorrow.”

  “Just one question.” I caught him as he was about to say goodbye. “Are we or are we not spending New Year’s Eve together this year?”

  “Sure. We can get reservations for a Manhattan hotspot. Or we can get cozy in a luxury suite in some fancy-schmancy hotel. Whatever you want, Maise.”

  “My sister and brother-in-law are having a New Year’s Eve party, here at the castle.”

  “And....”

  “And I want you to meet the family.”

  “I don’t know, Maisie,” he chuckled. “Is that really a good idea?”

  “Meaning?”

  “Do you really want your family to know?”

  “Know what?”

  “That you like men.”

  “Why would I mind that?” I was thinking of the debacle of the other night. It would be a welcome change.

  “How are you going to feel when they all start bugging you?”

  “Bugging me? Why would they bug me, Ross?”

  “They’ll want to know.”

  “Know what?”

  “About the wedding. You’ll have no peace. All you’ll hear is, ‘When are you two going to tie the knot?’ I know you, babe. It’ll send you up the wall.”

  “Oh, you’re hilarious,” I chided him.

  “That’s me.”

  “Pack your tux, penguin boy,” I instructed him, “or your kilt. New Year’s Eve is a formal affair. We party hard here.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way, babe.”

  Other Series by Sara M. Barton:

  The Gabby Grimm Fairy Tale Mysteries:

  Snow White and the Hunter, #1

  Where’s Hansel and Gretel’s Gingerbread House?, #2

  The Bard’s Bed & Breakfast Mysteries:

  Let Slip the Dogs of War, #1

  A Plague O’ Both Your Houses, #2

  The “Off-the-Books” Mysteries:

  Henry Hartman’s Holiday Crisis, #1

  The “Tell No One” Mysteries:

  Run for Your Life, Riley Horton, #1

  The Dance with Danger Mysteries:

  Square Dance with a Scandalous Skunk, #1

  Paso Doble with a Passionate Python, #2

  Foxtrot with a Furtive Fox, #3

  Bossa Nova with a Belligerent Bear, #4

  Mambo with a Maniacal Mako, #5

  Charleston with a Clever Cougar, #6

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  Barton, Sara M., What Evil Lurks in Monet's Pond: A