The Long Road Home (20 page)

Nora held the book in her hands, absently rubbing the leather with her thumb, then slowly paced back to C.W.’s side, holding it out before her. It was thin, burgundy, and it was a ledger. His tension doubled.

“After Mike’s death,” she began slowly, “his lawyers, accountants, everyone, started ripping through his things, searching for something. Mike didn’t trust them, so neither did I. I found this in his desk at home, hidden in a secret portal. It’s his private account book—a kind of cheat sheet that he used for himself only. Somehow I knew that this was my only weapon against them so I took it. Until I understood what was happening to me, I wasn’t about to lose total control.”

Smart girl, C.W. thought to himself. He would have done the same thing.

“I’ve read it through a number of times, trying to make sense of it, and the only connection I can make is with the Blair Bank.” She shook her head and wagged a finger. “They are somehow tied in with this mess. Mike hated Charles Blair,” she said, her fingers making deep indentations in the supple leather. “I’m sure he was responsible for Mike’s fall.”

She gritted her teeth and said with a conviction that chilled C.W.’s blood, “I’d like to get even with him. And if I can—I will.”

C.W. sat frozen in his chair. Any hope he’d harbored for avoiding deception withered with her words. She despised his very name.

“This is hard for me, giving this to you.” Nora looked at the ledger, as though reconsidering. When she looked up, she appeared resolute. Without another word, she stuck out her arm and offered him the ledger.

C.W.’s nostrils flared and he sat straighter in his chair as he looked at the book held out before him. He felt like a cad;
this was stealing candy from a baby. Suddenly, he stood up, angrily, and turned his back to her.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, eyes wide.

“What the bloody hell do you expect me to do?” he returned, swinging his head around to face her. “I can’t promise to save you. I am not your knight in shining armor.” He slammed his hands behind his back and stared intently into the fire. Inside, he raged at the Fates.

Nora saw only his stiff back and the way his hands clenched and unclenched.

“I don’t want a knight in shining armor,” she said softly. “I only want a friend I can trust.” She paused. “I thought that was you.”

His shoulders lowered. Slowly he turned around and stood for a moment, looking at her. There was no way she could understand why her trust had cut him so deeply. Nor was there any way he could explain it now. That ledger was the reason he was here tonight. Not her offer of friendship. Nor his feelings for her. She was Mrs. Michael MacKenzie, and that book in her hand could save the neck of her hated enemy, Charles Blair.

In his usual understatement he said, “I’ve made you anxious, haven’t I?”

Nora looked at the ledger in her outstretched hand, and raised it a fraction.

C.W. took the book.

The leather was soft and supple, from ample use, and in the firelight, its burgundy color glowed in muted reds. He knew without opening it that his instincts had been correct. His wait was justified, his quest was complete.

C.W. lay the ledger carefully before him on the table. Once opened, the die was cast. He drew a deep breath. Would this information be akin to opening Pandora’s box? He knew
evil lurked in these pages, but did he have the power to conquer it?

With disciplined determination, C.W. drew the ledger close, opened it, and began his study.

The minutes passed to an hour, then two, with C.W. bent over the books and Nora sitting silently beside him staring into the fire. Occasionally the papers would rustle as he sifted through them, checking a fact, noting a date. The fire popped and crackled. The wind sighed a high-pitched wail that shook the windows.

C.W. read the tale of greed, dishonesty, and ruin. The plot was not unique; he’d read similar tales before. This one, however, was personal. He read in the erratic words, in the doctored columns, and between the lines, the desperation of a dead man. Finishing, C.W. resented MacKenzie, deeply, not only for what he had done to him, but to Nora.

When at last he lifted his eyes, C.W. was mute with exhaustion. He slowly closed the ledger and stared at the burgundy leather under his hands. After all this time and anguish, he had his answer. C.W. knew why Michael MacKenzie had chosen to kill himself in front of Charles Blair.

C.W. rubbed his eyes. He felt like laughing, he felt like weeping. The whole thing was all a ruse! They had both been duped. Mike had mistakenly believed that it was Charles Blair who had deliberately destroyed him. By blowing his brains out, Mike had chosen a brutal form of revenge. Two lives senselessly destroyed.

C.W. came close to approaching the level of anger that Mike MacKenzie had once felt against Charles Blair. C.W.’s mouth went dry. Remembering the hatred he saw in Mike’s eyes, he wondered if in fact murder had been on MacKenzie’s mind that ugly morning, not suicide.

C.W. rested his large hands flat upon the ledger and turning his head to Nora, said quietly, “That son of a bitch.”

Nora looked at him without expression, blinked, then returned her gaze to the fire. “Yes, I suppose he was.” Her tone was flat, void of any feeling.

His ire rose as he did. Slamming the book on the table he shouted, “I can’t believe how high-handed he was.”

Nora looked up, visibly shaken at C.W.’s rare show of anger.

“MacKenzie didn’t give a damn who he hurt! Only a man without honor would gamble with stakes so high on a game so risky without first ensuring his family’s security. Wasn’t he concerned about leaving you destitute?”

“Please. Don’t yell.”

C.W.’s mouth tightened and his nostrils flared. Of course Mac didn’t care. Not only did Nora not have a penny—she owed one! She owed more money than most people dreamed of earning in a lifetime. Nora was in trouble. Big trouble.

He looked over at her small frame slumped before the fire. It pained him to see it. It also pained him that it fell to him to spell out her precarious position.

“Tell me how you kept the farm.” His voice was sharp.

She spread out her palms. “The lawyers sat me down, explained that I had lost virtually everything, then stated that I could scrape out a small amount from what was left. I immediately thought of the farm. It was one of the few places I really loved, and I thought, Aha, land! The most tangible form of security. So, thinking that with the sheep operation I could live a simple life up here, I negotiated for the farm over cash.”

“And they deeded it to you outright?” He cast her a dubious glance.

Nora shifted her weight. “Well, not exactly.”

He groaned inwardly but maintained his poker face. “What, exactly?”

She fidgeted and her voice took on an irritated tone.

“Exactly—the lawyers are holding the deed until after the auction. That will be the final step before our estate is settled. With all the loans, the taxes…it’s taken months to work through.”

C.W. kept his face still.

“I thought I’d use this time to see if I could in fact earn enough on the farm to live here.” She rubbed her temples. “That’s why I studied the books, learned the business, was in such a hurry. Only eight weeks.”

His fingers stopped tapping. He sat back down and leaned forward in his chair, hands clasped between his knees and his eyes inches from her own.

“Look at me, Nora, and listen.” He took a deep breath and forced his voice to a gentler note. He spoke slowly. “I am not telling you this to cause you pain. I am telling you this because I am your friend. And you have not been dealt with honestly or fairly by those in whom you’ve placed your trust.”

Her eyes were wide and bore the hunted look of a rabbit caught in a snare.

“I’ll try to explain this as simply and clearly as possible.”

She nodded in mute understanding.

“Your husband’s financial machine was built on paper. For this last venture, he borrowed under the guise of false companies and finagled from every bank he could. The man was a series of wallets. He created a web so complicated that only he knew how flimsy it really was. It was genius, I admit. It was also foolhardy. He risked it all. But the rug was pulled out from under him and he lost.”

“I already know that,” she replied in level tones. “But who pulled the rug?”

He cringed. That was exactly the question he needed to answer.

“I don’t know. What matters is that the banks that he borrowed from are calling in his debts. The total amount is substantial.”

“That is true,” she responded. “But the estate could file for bankruptcy after the auction.”

He reached out and cupped her chin, redirecting her gaze from the fire to him. She had to understand.

“You’d lose the farm for sure, then. Mike also owed back taxes. You realize that the IRS will stop at nothing to collect their due.”

She stared back at him.

“They’ll come after you. And if they can take the farm, they will.”

“The auction!” she said, jumping to her feet. “The auction should bring me enough money to pay the debts, cover our taxes, and keep this place afloat. At least for this year. That would buy us time. The auction will bring in a fortune,” she repeated. “After all, I have a van Gogh.”

C.W. was unimpressed. He looked at her with a worried frown and ran his fingers through his hair. “Now
you’ll
have to back up. Explain to me about this auction.”

She paced to the windows and back. “Next month the estate is auctioning off my worldly goods, such as they are. My antiques, jewels, and most importantly, my art collection. You know, the kinds of things a big auction house dies for. I have some wonderful pieces. I should do well.”

He took a deep breath. “Nora, I don’t know what you have to auction off. Frankly, it could be worth many millions and might not be enough.”

“It’s got to be.” She chewed her lip and held her palms together, giving the impression of a woman in prayer. “Don’t
you see? That’s why I have to be so secretive about the bankruptcy. If scent of this leaks out in New York, the auction is doomed. The dealers will know there are no reserves set and they’ll snatch up my things for a song. I’ll lose everything.” Her voice choked and her hand flew to her mouth to cover her quivering lips. She fought with herself, taking deep breaths to maintain control.

“Now do you understand?” she asked in a monotone. “I have to pretend everything is fine.” She looked at him with a level gaze. “But, I can’t balance that budget,” she said dispassionately, shoving the paper back to his side of the table. She lowered her head and sat quietly in her chair, beyond the reach of his words.

C.W. was beginning to understand everything all too well. The pieces of Nora’s puzzle began to fit together. He reflected on her comments and quips about Mike and understood that no love was lost between them after all. The Big Mac was the Big Loser. Who the hell cared about the money? That flagrant womanizer lost the one treasure worth keeping.

“Well, I won’t let them take it!” she said, suddenly sitting upright and pounding her fist on the table. “Damn Mike and his problems. This is
my
farm. I paid for this land myself, with Oma’s inheritance. Didn’t know that, did you? I’ve worked too hard to sit back and let those damn lawyers take it away. I’ve sat back too long. There are some things worth fighting for. Give me those figures!”

Her eyes were like two green flames leaping high. Sliding the papers over to her, he sat back and watched her attack them as if her life depended on it, which in many ways, he realized it did.

“There’s always a way,” she muttered, more to herself as she checked figures and scribbled numbers in long columns. “If we rent out that new stud, put off the tractor repairs, stop
all work on the house, rob Peter to pay Paul…” She scribbled a few more figures on the paper, checked some notes, and re-totaled the columns, working quickly and with focused attention.

“It might just work,” she said pushing the paper back to C.W.’s side of the table with a challenge in her eyes. He didn’t miss her smug grin, either.

C.W. scanned the figures, added a few more, then lifted his head. “This might work,” he agreed cautiously. “But, Nora, it’s only a delay.”

“I’ll deal with that after the auction. It’ll give me time to come up with something new. I have to have faith the auction will pull through. Then, I’ll think of something.”

Yeh-up, C.W. thought with admiration. She wasn’t the runt any longer.

“Thank you, C.W. You’ve been a bigger help than you know.”

C.W. remained silent.

“I hope you understand that what we discussed here is strictly confidential.”

He nodded his head. “I agree. Absolutely no one should know about this ledger.”

Nora stuck her hand out across the table. “Partners?”

C.W. stared at the outstretched hand for a second, reluctant to take it. My God, he was about to use the information she’d just dished out.

Across the table, her eyes were aglow with determination. In her eyes, he saw a chance to do the right thing. In her outstretched hand, he saw the chance to regain trust in himself. His future hinged on this decision.

He grabbed her hand and held it tight. “Partners,” he replied with conviction.

LOOKING AROUND THE deserted gas station, C.W. punched the number of a trusted associate at the Blair Bank. He’d found what he needed in MacKenzie’s ledger: proof that the defaulted loans were all fronts for MacKenzie. Knowing that, he could begin his campaign. One other fact on MacKenzie’s ledgers stood out from the rest. One reality that heightened the stakes for him. Nora might owe money to several banks, but the lion’s share was owed to his.

Someone had set up not only himself, but MacKenzie as well. It was positively Machiavellian. But who? Sidney or Agatha? Nowhere in the ledger did Mike name his accomplice at the bank. Mike was clever. He had written in code. Only at the end, when he lost caution to mania, had he written a name. Charles Blair.

Mike believed Charles Blair called the loans in. Without proof of the real accomplice, the damn ledger would only incriminate him further.

He decided to call an independent.

“Strauss here,” came the affected voice on the phone.

“Blair here.”

There was a long pause. “Charles?”

“Hello, Henry. You sound as if you’ve heard from a ghost.”

A faint chuckle sounded on the line. “I thought maybe I had. It’s been a long time. I was beginning to wonder if you were alive.”

C.W. let that one pass. “Henry, we have a war to wage.”

There was another pause, and C.W. could envision Henry’s face turning cold. “Yes, sir,” he replied evenly.

C.W. smiled. He could depend on Henry Strauss. “I have information on twelve businesses that were lent loans from our bank. These businesses were all fronts for Michael MacKenzie.”

He heard Henry suck in his breath.

In rapid-fire order, C.W. listed the names of the businesses and the dates of the loans. “I want the status quo of the MacKenzie estate. I want full reports on these loans and the businesses. And,” he said for emphasis, “most importantly, I want the name of the person who issued them. I warn you, my name may be on it, but that’s a red herring. Someone has been manipulating for my removal. It’s either Sidney or Agatha. I want you to find out who.” He paused, letting Henry absorb the implication of the risks he would be taking. “I need your best work here, Henry.”

“You can count on me, Charles.”

It was the first time C.W. could ever remember hearing a tremor of emotion in staunch Strauss’s voice. Good ol’ Henry.

“How long will it take you to dig this up?”

“This will be buried deep. MacKenzie’s estate has a battalion of lawyers to get past.” He coughed. “I’m on the outside now.”

“How long?”

“Two, maybe three weeks.”

C.W. thought of Sidney’s warnings, of Nora’s bills, of the upcoming auction. “You’ve got seven days. Tops. Or this thing’s going to blow.”

Agatha Blair peered out from one of a long row of Palladian windows at Stoneridge, the Blair estate in New Jersey. The sky was as black as ink and the wind rustled dry leaves against the pane. She was irritated to be receiving visitors so late, but Henry had insisted. At first Agatha had hesitated. She despised those horrid cellular phones that enabled people to call en route and be at the door within minutes. Henry must have been sure she’d receive him. His voice had actually trembled like an old woman’s when he mentioned the one name that would drag her from bed at any hour: Charles Blair.

Agatha had wrapped herself quickly in a long silk receiving gown and ordered tea brought to the library. Standing by the window, she sipped cognac. Her nose lingered at the snifter, the heady scent cleansing her of sleep as steam would a cold. Within minutes, Agatha spied a pair of headlights winding up the long private drive to the house. She dropped back the lace curtains, took a long swallow of her cognac, and sat in a pre-selected chair. The cognac’s fire began to burn in her belly.

Peacham, her butler, showed Strauss into the library with the proper degree of decorum, despite the irregular hour. Henry Strauss was eager but nervous. When he spotted Agatha seated in a particularly high-backed, arched wing chair, Strauss paused. Agatha’s eyes gleamed from her petite form and her hands stretched out upon her cane. Strauss was struck by how much she resembled a bat about to take flight. It was damn disconcerting. He straightened his tie as he walked across the room to take the seat beside her. He did not move his chair nearer.

“You’ve news of Charles?”

“He telephoned me tonight.”

Agatha’s surprise could not be concealed. Henry smiled.

“Well, go on, man. It’s late.” She tapped her cane.

“Charles knows about the loans to MacKenzie. He had the names of the shell companies.” Strauss leaned forward. “He had the dates.”

Agatha’s face pinched as if she’d just tasted something sour.

“How?” she whispered.

“I traced the call back to some public phone in Vermont. Ring a bell?”

Agatha shook her head.

Henry leaned back in his chair, rested his elbows on the armrests, and crossed his legs. Agatha eyed him shrewdly.

“Vermont struck a chord with me,” he said with a hint of conceit. “I thought about that, for quite a while actually, and then it hit me.” He paused while his fingers rubbed the velvet armrests.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, cut the theatrics, and spit it out,” Agatha snapped.

Henry frowned, offended. Flattening his palms on his lap, he continued in a more strained manner. “Do you remember I told you that Mrs. MacKenzie had left town? You were not interested in that at the time, I recall.” He delighted in the short stab, searching Agatha’s face for any clue of displeasure. Agatha peered over her cane, her face more stringent. Strauss continued without further delay.

“Mrs. Michael MacKenzie went to Vermont. Her farm is in the same town as the phone booth. Interesting coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”

Agatha paled. Her breathing pace increased slightly even as her mouth tightened. She made a snorting kind of sound from her nose.

“I knew it! I knew MacKenzie had papers somewhere.
Damn his soul to hell. Now Charles has them.” Her voice rose in anger and she stomped the cane hard upon the floor. “I want them. Do you understand, you blithering fool? If we don’t get MacKenzie’s papers we’re ruined.”

“I don’t believe those papers exist. Even if they do, they are not as incriminating as you believe,” Strauss countered. He kept his voice calm, enjoying this peek at Agatha’s violent temper. “Else why would he call me and enlist my help?”

Agatha stilled. “Your help?”

“Precisely. He wants me to do homework for him. It’s all guesswork on his part. He doesn’t know names. I’m to keep his call a secret, you see. Charles suspects you…and Sidney.”

Agatha leaned back in her chair and smiled broadly, revealing a line of small, even teeth under a thin upper lip.

“Sidney, you say? How perfectly marvelous.”

“Quite so.”

Agatha allowed herself a moment of humor, then felt very tired. She rose to her feet. Henry immediately followed suit and accompanied her to the door.

“Thank you, Henry, for this most important information. You were quite right to see me immediately. You will have the information I need on my desk first thing?”

At the door her hand lifted in a discreet signal. Peacham suddenly appeared with Henry’s coat and hat.

“I truly doubt your search will turn up these mysterious papers, you know,” Strauss said.

“We must know for certain what we are dealing with, don’t you agree? Of course you do.” Agatha turned toward the wide circular staircase. Her gaze swept up the walls of the staircase, lined with portraits of the illustrious Blair family.

“Charles suspects Sidney? Perfect.”

Turning her head to Strauss, she added, “Calm, Henry. We must remain calm. The house of Blair is soon to take a fall.”