Chapter Seven --

 

“How can you say that?” she cried, horrified at the thought. “I’ve been very patient and understanding throughout this whole crisis.”

“Have you?”

“Of course I have! What am I doing talking to you?” She asked herself that question, and followed it up by answering it. She got to her feet, pacing the room as she sputtered. “You’re not even married. You have no experience with something like this. It’s easy for you to judge me. You’re single. You don’t know what commitment is like. You’re just bitter because you never got married. And now you’re happy because I’m miserable. Oh, I know all about you, Margaret Dawson Carr!”

Fascinated, I watched Alberta talk herself back into that black hole. And as she spun her words, I suddenly realized that she had wasted a lifetime believing the fallacies that made her feel safe. She never had to question her place in life. She just had to question everyone else’s. A woman determined not to be at fault.

“You know what, Alberta? You’re right. You do know more about life than I do. You understand people better than I do, too. In fact, you should have been a psychologist, because you see things in people that no one else sees. You’re a real ‘people person’ and you have all the answers. You’re so smart, you’ve got nothing left to learn. My only regret is that you don’t get the respect you so clearly deserve from this family.”

“That sounds sarcastic,” she decided.

“Does it? You’d know best, dear. After all, you’re the oldest and the wisest. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.” I brushed past her on my way out the door.

From now on, I instructed myself, I was going to agree with everything that idiot said, regardless of how wrong she was. I was going to kill her with kindness, because if that wasn’t my weapon of choice, I was quite likely to bludgeon her to death with the nearest candelabra. The woman was, to put it mildly, the most irritating wretch on the planet, and I was damned if I was going to let her get the better of me.

Gesso was taking a nap with Elmore Leonard, the Johnson family Labrador, in the kitchen. Aunt Clementine was baking a batch of her famous chocolate chip cookies, mixing up the batter in the bowl. I grabbed some granola and milk, wolfed it down as I glanced over the New York Times. The police were still in the upper field by the pond. I could see all the vehicles lined up in the driveway and a constant parade of people coming and going. I rinsed out my bowl, grabbed another cup of coffee from the coffeemaker, and watched her drop the teaspoons of cookie dough onto the baking sheet.

“I’ve got an offer to write a blog post about the art heist,” I told her. “I think I’ll head over to the museum to see if I can find some inspiration. Would you like to join me when the cookies are done?”

“I think I’ll pass on that, dear. I’m too rattled by everything that’s going on. I don’t really handle stress all that well anymore.”

“I’m sorry you’re upset, love. Don’t take it to heart. We’ll sort it all out. The Carrs always do.”

“Alberta seems so angry,” she confided.

“Between us, that’s because Marty left her. He moved out of the house. He also lost his job about half a year ago. My best guess is that everything has been building up for some time, and unfortunately, it all comes out now.”

“Pity,” Aunt Clementine decided. “I always felt sorry for Marty. He seemed like such a lost soul.”

“Really?” I admit I was surprised to hear her perspective on the situation. To me, Marty was just a guy who had no confidence at all. He relied on Alberta to tell him what to do and how to do it. But it never seemed to bother him that he was always taking direction.

“You always have to feel sorry for people who don’t know their own minds. They’re so easily influenced by the strong-willed. And when they finally learn to speak up, it always comes as such a shock.”

“It does, doesn’t it?”

“Those are the people who won’t ever go back to the way things were. They burn their bridges behind them.”

“That they do,” I smiled as she wiped her hands on a dish towel.. I gave her a little hug and then headed upstairs to change.

Nora was coming out of her bedroom when I started up the final flight of stairs to the tower room.

“Hey,” she hailed me. “How did the conversation go?”

“Not that well, I’m afraid. Marty left her, she’s convinced he’s gay, and I’m fed up with her absolute stupidity. She doesn’t want to admit she’s wrong, so it’s everyone else’s fault. I’m taking off for the museum in a few minutes. I’ve got a post to write. Tell the police that’s where they can find me.”

“You’re leaving, just like that?” Nora was always the good girl in the family, the one who played by the rules.

“Just like that. It’s either that or I’m going to take a swing at Alberta. Besides, these cops are investigating the museum theft. They’re already killing two birds with one stone. I’m sure they won’t mind me parking my carcass there.”

“I hope you’re right,” she warned me. “I can’t take much more drama, Maise.”

“Tell me about it.”

Fifteen minutes later, I had paid my admission and found myself in the main courtyard. I found myself a seat opposite Hermione Wells Tattinger’s mausoleum, admiring the reflecting pool that stood before it. The gentle gurgle was soothing and I forced myself to sketch the scene, letting my mind wander as I worked my magic on the paper.

My thoughts were interrupted by a group entering the glass-roofed courtyard. I recognized a couple of the cops from the snow-covered scene earlier in the morning. The shorter investigator, Matt Gromski, beat a path to me as I sat with my drawing.

“Ms. Carr, I thought we asked you to wait at the house.”

“You did.”

“But you chose not to do that.”

“I did.”

“May I ask why?” He seemed rather non-plussed at my non-compliance.

“Have you interviewed my cousin yet, Alberta Susan Scott?” I inquired.

“No, we have not. Should we?”

“Not because she actually has any relevant information. But I’m guessing that by the time you’re done talking to her, you’ll understand why I needed to get out of the house.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Judge for yourself,” I responded non-committally. “Suffice it to say that you found me now, so I’ll be happy to answer any questions you have.”

“Dave!” the detective hailed a man wearing a black overcoat, with graying hair and a moustache. “She’s over here.”

I watched the stranger cross the courtyard, and as I did I thought, “I know him.” It was the way he moved -- confidence, the haughtiness, the determination that gave him away.

“Ms. Carr, let me introduce the man the FBI sent from Washington to coordinate the investigative efforts for the museum heist. This is Dave Matthews. His specialty is art thefts.”

Dave Matthews, my fanny! His real specialty is espionage. And if he’s here in person, this is a national security thing. I reluctantly put down my pen and took the proffered hand as I gazed up into the eyes I knew so well. Ross’s. He might be in disguise, but I know my lover when I see him.

“Mr. Matthews,” I said.

“Ms. Carr, I know of you by reputation. I’ve seen some of your work. I’m an admirer.”

“Are you?”

“Would you mind going over the details of how you found the body today?”

“Why? Is it connected to the theft of the paintings?” I shot back. I couldn’t help myself.

“You can let us worry about that. We’re just trying to cover all of the avenues,” he replied, with a touch of arrogance in his voice. Well-played, I nodded. Just the right Washingtonian note. Enough that the state cops would buy the story. I decided I was annoyed enough with Ross to make his game a little harder to play.

“Well, I don’t know what I can tell you. I walked the dog. She found the body. I called 911. End of story.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Gentlemen,” Ross said, turning to Gromski and a pair of uniformed cops, “would you please excuse us a moment? I would like to read the Riot Act to Ms. Carr. Apparently she has issues with authority figures.”

“Sure,” said the male cop, with a small shrug. “Knock yourself out. We’ll be checking the rooms as we discussed.”

“You come and find us when you’re done,” said the female cop, her eyes lingering on Ross.

“I’m just going to go up and talk to the curator again in his apartment. Buzz me when you’re ready,” said Gromski. Ross took the seat next to me, silent as he watched the cops walk away, their footsteps echoing on the polished marble floor. Once Gromski had exited through the “employees only” door and the uniformed police officers went out to the office, he turned his attention back to me. “How’s everything?”

“Just ducky. How’s everything with you?”

“Sounds like you’re not happy with me.”

“Your hearing’s improved.”