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Destiny

Melanie Greenwood

    “Professor De’Von was right about one thing,” Lucy said, “criminals are not born, they are made.”
    Edgar smiled.
    “Remember the date, Edgar,” she said. “I, Destiny Degas born this day, Sunday, March 18, 1990 in the Short Gallery Room at Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston, Massachusetts.”
    Edgar’s smile widened.
    “I am here to take back my father’s fucking sketches,” Destiny said.
    Edgar laughed.
    “My Lady,” he said, accompanied by a bow of devotion. “May I present a symbol of your proclamation from Napoleon Bonaparte, himself,” he said and handed her the Eagle of the 1^st Squadron of the Horse Grenadiers of the Imperial Guard.
    She smiled.
    He knew Lucy’s life was one of tragedy and that she had played by all the rules. He also knew that she claimed to have lost her humanity, betrayed by co-workers, friends, family, and losing her mother to Cancer.
    “Don’t move,” she said, bending over to grab the wrench from his backpack.
    Her wig fell off.
    He reached for it.
    She rubbed the smooth surface of her head and with wide eyes and trembling lips stared at him.
    With soft eyes and a lump at his throat, he barely muttered the words, “My Lady!”
    He knew her fragile state and that she pretended to be brave for him. So, he held her wig securely and kneeled before her.
    With the wrench, she knighted him, Sir Lancelot.
    Lucy may have graduated with a B.A. in Criminal Justice and a Master’s Degree in Criminal Psychology, but he knew her heart would forever be devoted to art and history.
    “Give me my wig,” she said, laughing. “It’s chilly in here.”
    Edgar handed her the wig.
    “Go get the other bag,” she said. “I’ll wait here for you.”
    Still laughing, she watched as he exited the Short Gallery Room. He ran through the Rafael Room into the Italian Room and grabbed the bag holding three Rembrandt; then, traced his steps back into the Short Gallery Room.
    “Lucy!” He froze momentarily.
    Dropping the paintings, he flew over to her side but knew immediately that he was too late.
    Her head was cold. He removed the wig from her hand and found she had placed a sealed envelope inside the cup. The envelope was addressed to Sir Lancelot. Edgar opened it not caring if a real cop walked in and found two fake cops, one dead and the other wishing he were.
    The tears flowed as he read her note.

Dear Edgar,
    Enclosed is a map to a secret rose garden. Be careful of the thorns and please, follow the instructions. If you do, it will take the FBI over twenty years to find out who did it. By then, the Statue of Limitations will apply and no one will be able to arrest you. I planned everything perfectly.
    In addition, please donate my portion to the charities I’ve listed on the second page.
    Please bury me next to my mother.
    Thank you for everything!
    You are my only friend,
Lucy
    P.S.: Our treasure is worth an estimated $500 million dollars.

He smiled with the girl who claimed she’d lost her humanity. Then, took all their treasure – including her father’s five sketches along with his only friend and left.

This story was created for a class assignment from the video called, “The Gardner Museum Heist The Largest Art Theft in the World.” (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-1mzMh0sugg)

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