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.”

Zing! Ooh, you got me! I lie mortally wounded at your feet, cousin. Time to teach kitty that others have claws, too.

“What does that mean?” I was pretty sure that was a veiled remark about the family theory I was a lesbian. After all, over forty, unmarried, what else could I be? We all know that heterosexuals get married right after college. Just ask Allie. “Explain yourself, Alberta.”

“Everyone knows....”

“Knows what?” I demanded.

“It’s okay,” Bowie announced. “We love you no matter what you are.”

“So, what exactly am I?”

“I’m sure she doesn’t mean anything by it,” my sister suggested. I knew she was wishing I would drop it, but I’d finally reached my limit with Alberta.

“No,” said Bertie, being every inch the youngster having fun at the adult party, “I think she very much does. What is all this nonsense about, Alberta? Are you suggesting Maisie is gay?”

“Of course not,” she stuttered, suddenly all too aware of the serious faces around her. “What I meant was that....”

“Not everyone is single by choice, Alberta.” That was Andrew. “Some people are busy with their careers, their lives. Has it ever occurred to you that there might be a very different explanation for why Maisie never brings someone home with her?”

“Such as?” There she goes, getting her second wind. Even as I sat back and listened, I knew that the one and only A.S.S. was determined to kick the ball through the goalpost once and for all.

“Maybe she’s in love with a married man,” said Cara. If anyone understood that, it was she. Cara and Bertie had waited six years to marry, while he carefully extricated himself from his very unhappy marriage.

“Are you?” Alberta demanded, with more than a little animosity. I picked up the imaginary glove she just whacked me with and tucked it in my imaginary pocket.

“Let me ask you this,” I demanded. “What business is it of yours who I sleep with or who I love? I’m an adult and I don’t need your permission to live my life the way I choose.”

“I knew it!” she crowed triumphantly. “I was right!”

“Were you?” I sat back in my chair, suddenly satisfied. “While we’re at it, it’s inappropriate for you to address a Christmas card to me and my tenant, as if we are a couple. Lydia is not my lover. Never has been, never will be.”

The truth is my townhouse in Virginia is too big for me alone, especially when I am on the road so often. I took in a tenant a few years ago, a young woman who takes good care of the place in my absence and is willing to watch my dog now and then. Alberta met her when she came to tour DC a couple of years ago.

“‘Me thinks thou does protest too much,’” she replied slyly. “I was just being supportive of my dear cousin. None of us care that you live with another woman.”

“On the contrary, it seems to bother the hell out of you. Why else would you mention it?”

You might wonder why I decided to go kamikaze on my cousin. The answer is simple. I do, in fact, have a secret life. I have since I turned twenty-two. But it’s not what she thinks.

Even Bowie looked a little confused at my reaction as he sat next to Alberta. The twenty-something liberal, so often at odds with his mother’s conservative streak, thought he was doing me a big favor by helping his mother “out” me. Only trouble was they picked the wrong closet.

Every family has secrets and mine is no different. And as the long-suspected lesbian in the family, I was put into a very unusual position more than a decade earlier. Aunt Clementine came to me one afternoon, after we had cleaned up the kitchen from an earlier Christmas.

“You know, dear, you never need be ashamed of who you are.”

“Oh?” For the life of me, I didn’t really see where the conversation was going. After all, artists can be a respectable breed. We’re not all out there making a mockery of religion or politics. Some of us just love the illumination of light on a subject, whether it’s a piece of fruit, a bridge, or a face.

“If you ever want to talk, you can come to me.”

“Thank you, Aunt Clementine.” I hugged her with great affection. “I certainly will.”

“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about, loving another woman.” As she said that, I suddenly saw the light. This sweet, caring woman, who remembered everyone’s birthday and always sent cookies, was living a secret life of her own. All those years of talking about her boss’s family were deflection from the source of her real strength, her best friend, Linda, the boss’s daughter. Even as I took her hand in mine, she realized the truth.

“No,” I agreed. “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Any more than I should be embarrassed about loving a man who isn’t available at the moment.”

Her hand was cold in mine and I could feel her fear. I wanted her to know that I would not betray her. It was her choice whether or not to be public about her own love. It was hers to claim. It’s not my place to betray a trust.

That’s the thing about working with secrets every day. You come to understand the power they have. A lot of people think that anything goes these days. Put it all out there. They don’t always understand the reality. People like Aunt Clementine would be shy no matter who they loved. Just like Alberta would be a noisy lesbian, if she played on the other team.

Over time, Aunt Clementine came to realize that I really was on her side, and at every visit, she would share more of her private life with me -- the ups and downs, the joys of her days, the dark nights of her soul, her successes and failures. And now, as we all sat at the table, I saw her pale face, drained of blood, as she watched the family kick around the issue of having a lesbian in the family.

“Why are we even discussing this?” Nora finally demanded. “I want you all to know right now that I don’t care a fig if anyone at this table is gay or heterosexual. It doesn’t matter to me. I just want everyone to be happy and kind. We should be focusing on respecting one another and finding the common ground.”

“Personally,” added Broderick, “I’m tired of all the politics around the subject. Let’s just agree that we are family and forget about our differences.”

“Here, here,” said Annabelle, raising her glass.

“To us,” Bertie declared. We all joined in, but even as I toasted the others, I could see Alberta glaring at me. Merry Christmas, I thought to myself. Gesso, my little Yorkie, pawed at my leg.

“Time to take the pooch out,” I told the group, excusing myself.

On the way out the dining room door, Broderick followed me.

“Hey, sis!”

“Yes?” I turned on my heel and gazed up at that receding hairline of his, the still youthful smile, and the earnest eyes.

“I just wanted to say that if you were, I can accept that.”

“If I were what?” Gesso wiggled in my arms as I tightened my grip on her.

“It’s...it’s okay if you...you know....”

“What in God’s name would possess you to still believe I am gay?” I hissed, not wanting to rouse Alberta for another performance of “Nosy Knows Best”.

“Look, I know about what happened with Keith Heublein.”