Bleeding Heart (18 page)

“No, I’m fine,” I said, sitting down opposite him on a velour-covered couch that enfolded me in its cushiony embrace. “All I want is your advice.”

“Shoot,” he said.

“Mackenzie’s final check to me didn’t clear,” I told him. “It was a big one—half of what he owed me. I have bills coming due from all over. I have no idea how to go about collecting the money, Sal. Who do I talk to? Where should I call?”

“I wish I could tell you,” Sal said. “I’ve been asking myself the same questions. Graham screwed me, too, as I think you’ve gathered by now. He sold me a bill of goods on one of his subsidiaries. Turned out to be smoke and mirrors. I’m taking a real bath on it. It’s going to seriously hurt my profit picture next quarter.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, but at least he had a profit picture to worry about.

“And I’m sorry to hear about you,” Sal said. “I was the one who recommended you to Graham. Believe me, I never would have sent you his way if I’d had any idea what he was really like. He fooled me, Alice. And he fooled me good. I knew his reputation, of course, but I like to decide for myself what someone’s made of. And he convinced me that he was something of an entrepreneurial genius. That he’d figured out how to turn natural gas production into gold. And I bought into it. But Graham has always been overleveraged, and when the gas glut began to escalate earlier this year—in no small measure due to MKZEnergy’s spectacular growth—the share price plummeted. The whole business started to collapse under the weight of all that debt. He was a victim of his own success. And it looks like we’re both victims, too.”

“How can you sound so calm about it?”

“I’m not,” Sal said, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. “I’m actually furious. I was duped. I was made to look like a fool—very publicly. Losing the investment is one thing—having my reputation take a hit is another. And he knew what he was doing when he sold me that piece of crap. He knew exactly what he was doing. The worst thing about it all is that I thought we were friends. I really
liked
the man. I enjoyed his company. I hate his guts now, but I’m still going to miss him.”

“So there’s nothing we can do? We just kiss the money good-bye? It seems so unfair!”

“Well, I’ll probably write most of it down as a tax loss,” Sal said. “You’ll have to get in line with all the other creditors. My guess is there’ll be some kind of a class-action suit. You could join that. But even then, you’re only going to recoup pennies on the dollar. I’m sorry. I wish I had better news.”

“Is this why you’ve been calling me?” I asked. “You wanted to warn me about Mackenzie’s financial situation?”

Sal’s gaze slid past me for a moment, focusing on something across the room.

“Yes,” he said, but then he shook his head. “No. No, I’m sorry, it was something else. But it doesn’t matter anymore. Listen, Alice, if I’d had any idea what you were facing, I would have tracked you down in person to let you know.”

“Thanks,” I said, getting up to leave. And then I remembered what I’d promised Gwen. “You know, there is one other thing. Mackenzie told me he would put money into his charitable fund—something called the Mackenzie Project—if I took on his landscaping job. He pledged to put in dollar for dollar what he paid out to me in services. What happens to that money now, Sal? Am I right in thinking that his creditors can’t legally touch it?”

“Why do you ask?” Sal said, sighing a little as he pushed himself out of his chair. He was still such a burly, vital man that it was easy to forget he was a grandfather and probably hitting seventy soon. But I thought he looked every bit his age as he lumbered to his feet at this moment.

“It was a big reason I agreed to take the assignment on,” I told him. It wasn’t a lie, though it wasn’t exactly the truth.

“I see,” he said. “I was wondering, because I learned recently that an anonymous donor has given Bridgewater House an enormous donation. Enough, actually, to cover the costs of the entire capital campaign. Your friend Gwen made the big announcement
at the last WHS board meeting. A good thing, too, because I know some of my fellow board members were beginning to wonder if Gwen was up to the job. I just hope she got all her
i
’s dotted and
t
’s crossed on this one. I’d hate to see anyone disappointed.”

As I said, Sal Lombardi didn’t miss much.

“You didn’t answer my question,” I said as he led me to the front door.

“Well, it’s a yes/no kind of answer,” Sal replied. “
Yes
, in general, charitable organizations cannot be attached during bankruptcy proceedings. At the same time, I happen to know that Graham made Chloe chair of the Mackenzie Project to keep her busy and out of his hair. Do you think she’s going to honor Graham’s pledge to Bridgewater House? It’s only a guess on my part, but I’m afraid that’s probably where the
no
comes in.”

I
was impressed by Mara’s suggestion that we carry the business expenses I was paying for out of my personal checking account as a loan to the company. It made me think. Why shouldn’t I apply to the bank for a loan myself? I had a friendly relationship with Sherry Genzlinger, the manager of our local Barrington Bank branch, who’d been more than helpful when I first set up my Green Acres account there several years back. She was an avid amateur gardener, and often pumped me for professional advice about her roses. She loved David Austins in particular, despite their sometimes fickle and withholding nature in our hardiness zone.

When I stopped by the bank that Monday morning, Sherry was on the phone. She saw me hovering outside her door, waved me into her small, sunny box of an office, and nodded at the gray molded plastic chair facing her desk. I took a seat.

“Well, this is a nice surprise,” she said with a smile when she finished her call. “What can I do for you, Alice?”

Though I’d convinced myself that everyone I saw these days knew what a mess I was in, Sherry’s welcoming unconcern made
me realize she was oblivious to Mackenzie’s—and now my—financial troubles. I filled her in as briefly as possible.

“Oh, dear,” she said, clicking the top of her ballpoint pen nervously up and down. “That’s a very large sum of money. Shouldn’t you have . . . ?” But she let the question trail off when she saw my expression.

“I’ve never had any problems with receivables in the past,” I told her. “And I was recommended to Mr. Mackenzie by a longtime client. It was my most important commission so far. But I got wrapped up in having it be a success, and I just didn’t think about how much money I was laying out until it was too late. Yes, I should have done a lot of things differently. I realize that now.”

“And you say you can’t get through to anyone at his company?”

“It’s all just ‘Leave a message after the beep,’ and I’ve tried every extension I could find. Nobody’s gotten back to me. MKZ headquarters is in Atlanta, and I read that they’re planning a massive restructuring and layoffs. The last thing anybody probably wants to deal with right now is their former CEO’s personal expenditures.”

“You’ve tried his wife?”

“His ex. Her phone’s unlisted, but I don’t think she’s going to be of much help in any case. She called the gardens a waste of money and a boondoggle.”

“Have you considered legal action?”

“Yes, and I’ll go that route, of course, but I need a cash infusion to get me through in the meantime.”

Sherry frowned and put down the pen.

“What did you have in mind?” she asked.

“A business loan of some kind. Whatever you can suggest. I figure I’ll need about—” I named a sum that made her wince, and I quickly tried to soften the blow. “But, as I explained, I will be
seeking legal recourse. I
will
get this money back. It’s just a matter of time.”

“That may be so,” she said, “but that’s not going to wash with our loan officers. What sort of collateral do you plan to offer?”

“Green Acres,” I said, sitting up straighter in the uncomfortable chair. “It’s been growing every year since its inception. I’ve an excellent roster of clients, including some of the best properties in our area. My staff is well trained and hard—”

“Alice, please,” Sherry said, holding up her hand. “Let’s be practical. Your equipment is leased. Your business has no bricks and mortar, nothing
tangible
, in terms of assets. And you’re already carrying debt. We can’t very well repo your client list if you don’t make the interest payments.”

“But I’ve been doing business at this bank for
years
,” I told her, despising the whine I heard in my voice. No, I was
not
going to humiliate myself or look pitiable! As I stood up to leave I said in a more conciliatory tone, “Look, I’m sorry. I know you would do something if you could. And it’s been good just talking to you.”

“Wait,” she said. “Hold on. What about a second mortgage or a home equity line of credit? You own your place free and clear, right? I’m sure we could fast-track the paperwork for you, Alice. I’d see to it.”

“Thanks,” I said. Though I knew it made sense, the idea also made me sick to my stomach. I could hear my father’s beseeching
Promise me you’ll never let it go!
I’d already stumbled so badly. But mortgaging the family homestead felt to me like the ultimate failure. I shook Sherry’s hand and said, “I really appreciate your help. Let me think about it.”

It was Mara’s idea to send back many of the outdoor lights, urns, fountains, and other fixtures I’d purchased for Mackenzie’s gardens.

“After all
, he
didn’t pay for any of it,” she pointed out, “
you
did. Everything was ordered in your name, and I bet a lot of these
places accept returns. You’ll at least be able to recoup part of the money that way.”

“Yes, you’re right,” I replied, but the idea made me uncomfortable for some reason, and I put off doing anything about it.

“Listen, you’ve got thirty days to return most of these items to your suppliers,” Mara pointed out a few days after she first made the suggestion. “I put together a list of what we can ship back, and I called around. If we get everything packed and out of there this week we can save a bundle by sending the stuff UPS Ground.”

“Thanks,” I said, running my eye over the list Mara had compiled. “Let me think about it.”

“What’s there to
think
about?”

“Let me be!” I snapped, folding the list in half and stuffing it into my shoulder bag as I left the office. Though I appreciated Mara’s help, I didn’t appreciate being nagged. I had too many other things on my mind, I told myself. I knew that wasn’t really the problem, of course. But I was fed up with trying to deal with everything, including my own failings, and I wasn’t in the mood for self-reflection.

I’d planned to run errands in Great Barrington, but instead of making the right when I got into town, I found myself taking the familiar left turn up Powell Mountain Road. I hadn’t been back to Mackenzie’s since the Open Day. That was almost two weeks ago now, a period of time that seemed to have been warped by the emotional fallout of my client’s death. In some ways, it felt like years since I’d last driven up the winding roadway through the lush and lovely woods. At the same time, the awfulness of what had happened was still far too fresh in my mind. I parked in front of the garages. Eleanor’s car wasn’t in evidence, and the house had a closed-up feeling—drapes drawn in the windows facing the parking area, a soggy pile of newspapers moldering on the steps. The
dahlias and petunias in the large terra-cotta pots flanking the portico, left unwatered for far too long, had collapsed into a snarled nest of shriveled flower heads and stalks.

It wasn’t until I walked around to the steps leading down to the sundial garden, though, that I realized just how quickly nature had worked to reclaim its own. The grass, which hadn’t been mowed in almost two weeks—and this at the height of summer—had shot up at least half a foot in some places and had started to invade the terraces. Weeds were creeping into the flower beds, strangling some of the tender perennials and insinuating themselves among the roots of the newly planted shrubs and specimen trees. Crabgrass flourished in the crevices of the walls and pathways. As I walked down the steps, I saw a stack of faded Open Day programs wadded together under a bench. An empty plastic cup—swept by the breeze—skittered across the deck. Clearly, no one had cleaned up after the Open Day event was canceled. Everything had been left—just as at Pompeii—the way it was the moment catastrophe struck.

I continued on down through the garden rooms, each showing signs of neglect: the roses in need of deadheading, the boxwoods raggedy with new growth, the fountain dry as a bone. I remembered the sense of oppression that weighed on me the fogged-in morning of the event. But what I felt now was even more unnerving. As my footsteps echoed on the flagstone walkway I had the distinct feeling that I was being watched. But by whom? And from where? When I reached the waterfall terrace I turned around and surveyed the house, which I could see in its entirety from that vantage point. But the wall of windows stared blankly out over the valley. Determined to get hold of myself, I resolutely approached Damon’s beautiful wrought-iron railing and looked down.

Someone had turned off the pump, and now the water just trickled over the ledge and dripped into the pool below, which had
filled with leaves and other debris. The little glade was choked with weeds. But there was nothing about the sun-dappled scene below to indicate that a man had looked death in the face there. And this was probably the last thing Mackenzie saw, I realized—a canopy of green, a mild blue sky, a cloud passing leisurely overhead. Even with Open Day visitors strolling around on the grounds above, it was a peaceful, solitary place to die.

I bowed my head, trying to finally accept what had happened. Because that was why I’d come, I realized now. Not just to face the fact that Mackenzie was gone for good, but to start to come to terms with the need to dismantle the gardens we’d built together. That I’d created from scratch—and poured my heart and soul into. That I’d been so proud of. Too proud, of course. Chloe was right, after all. The project was a boondoggle and a waste of money. Mine.

I sensed something behind me and whirled around. It was Eleanor, dressed in her perfectly pressed uniform, looking as terrified as I felt. She had a kitchen knife in her hand, which she slipped into her apron pocket when she saw who I was.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“I—we—” I felt around in my shoulder bag for the list Mara had put together and pulled it out. “We’re planning to return a lot of these garden fixtures. I was just looking around to see how much work would be involved.”

“You should have alerted me!” she said, still clearly upset. “I saw someone walking around out here—and I didn’t know what to expect. I keep thinking that . . .”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you, Eleanor. I didn’t realize you were still coming in every day.”

“Yes,” Eleanor said. “I’m cleaning the place from top to bottom. And I’m keeping an eye on things. Someone has to. People
hear a big house like this is sitting empty—and bad things start to happen.”

“You thought I was an intruder?” I asked, trying to understand why she was so distraught. She kept looking around nervously, as if expecting someone—or something—else to suddenly emerge from the shadows. Her mood was infectious, and I couldn’t help turning and looking behind me, too. The wands of the weeping cherries shifted in the breeze, but that was all.

“I keep thinking I see him,” she said.

“See who?”

“Mr. M,” she said, putting her hand over her mouth as if the words had escaped of their own volition. “I know he’s dead, of course. I
know
that. But I’ll be up there, working in the kitchen or vacuuming the living room, and I’ll look out the window—and see—I’d swear I’ll see—” She closed her eyes, fighting back tears, as she shook her head quickly back and forth.

“Let’s go up to the house, okay?” I said, taking her by the elbow. She let me lead her back up through the gardens to the deck. We entered through the kitchen door, which stood open. The top-of-the-line appliances gleamed in the late-afternoon sun. Plates and glasses were arranged neatly on the shelves. The tile floor looked recently buffed. But the fruit bowl stood empty. And there was no whiff of the comforting cooking smells that usually permeated the room.

Eleanor went over to the table and sat down. I followed, pulling out a chair across from her.

“What were you planning to do with that knife?” I asked her, nodding at her apron.

“I don’t really know,” she said with a rueful laugh. “I guess I just needed something to hold on to. It makes me feel safer. Or at least a little less scared.”

“Mara told me you don’t like being up here all by yourself,” I said. “And I don’t blame you. Why do you keep coming in?”

“I have a job to do,” she said simply. “I know that sounds crazy. Especially because I’m not getting paid anymore. But I wouldn’t feel right leaving Mr. M in the lurch. And I couldn’t just walk away from his beautiful house. I intend to close this place up properly. Though I know that’s crazy, too, because he left me in such a bad way. Just the way he did you and Mara. It’s all so hard to understand, isn’t it? I mean, he was such a wonderful man! So generous and thoughtful. But at the same time, he was such a—well, he didn’t tell the truth, did he? About his company and my savings. I’ve lost everything. My retirement. My investment in his company. And my son lost everything, too.”