“I used to come here a lot,” he said. “It’s a great place when you have a slew of noisy children on your hands.”
Tom knew the menu by heart. He ordered dinner and wine for us both.
“Do you miss those days?” I asked after the owner had poured our glasses of Chianti and walked off with the menus.
“Oh, sure, when the kids were young—and Beth was still okay,” he said, looking out across the busy room. “But later? No. It was pretty rough, honestly. I was juggling too many things and none of them particularly well.”
“Why do I think that’s just not so?”
“Well, that’s kind of you,” he said. “Everyone thought I was such a saint. Dealing with the kids. Caring for Beth at home. But the truth is . . . I was so deeply angry most of the time. At Beth. At how that damned disease was taking everything away from her when she still had so much left to give. And how it was totally taking over my life. The anger was kind of like my own disease, you know? Eating away at me from the inside.”
“Oh, I know all about anger,” I told him. “And I agree. It can eat you alive if you don’t watch it. I still have to work every day not to let that happen. But time helps. It really does. I think I’m maybe a little further along in the recovery process than you are.”
“No,” Tom told me with a quick laugh, “I think you’re just further evolved than me on every level.”
I didn’t mind the more somber turn our conversation had taken. There were very few people I could talk to openly about what had happened with Richard. And, more to the point, what had happened to me because of it. I felt bad that Tom was still dealing with what seemed to me a lot of unresolved feelings. At the same time, his own struggles made mine seem less lonely. I took comfort in the thought that we both had faced—and were still grappling with—some serious heartache. The dinner was good, though I ate very little. I was far more interested in what Tom was saying—and what he wasn’t. I caught him looking at me speculatively a few times.
“What?” I asked finally, over coffee.
“Oh—well . . . ,” Tom said, obviously embarrassed. “I just wondered how your interview with Detective Erlander went. I take it he talked to you.”
“And I take it he talked to you about me, right?” I asked. “Don’t worry! I’ve heard from a number of people that he’s been going around asking questions about my checkered past. It’s so crazy, though. I can’t imagine what he really thinks Richard’s disappearance has to do with Mackenzie’s death. My friend Gwen says he told her that he likes to look under every rock.”
“I think it’s more that he’s grasping at every straw,” Tom said. “He pulled the same kind of thing with me. He uncovered a number of blog posts I’d written over the last couple years for a Web site called EcoCrisis.org. I did a lot of research into the bigger gas producers, including MKZEnergy. I didn’t have a lot of good things to say.”
“And exactly what does this have to with the investigation?”
“Well you might ask!” Tom said, shaking his head. “As best I can figure out, Erlander seems to think that Mackenzie blocked my wind power initiative to get back at me for the negative coverage. I’d like to think that was the case, honestly. But I kind of doubt Mackenzie ever even heard of EcoCrisis, let alone felt my pieces would have any serious impact on his business. No, he didn’t give a damn about my views. All he cared about was making sure his precious vista remained unobstructed.”
“And so? Erlander suspects you killed Mackenzie because he killed your initiative?”
“That’s my guess,” Tom said. “I checked in with my friend in the DA’s office after that to see if I should take any of this seriously. He said that Erlander’s known to be a very thorough investigator. And because Mackenzie’s death is so high profile he’s under a lot of pressure to get things right. He’s been down to Atlanta twice to interview Chloe and Lachlan. He’s got people doing background checks, combing through MKZ’s business records. They’re talking to everyone who had any sort of dealings with the man—including your friend Gwen.”
“Oh?” I said. “What about her?”
“You knew, didn’t you?” Tom asked, signaling for the check. “About Mackenzie promising to underwrite the Bridgewater House restoration, then backing out when his business started to tank? Seems like everyone had some kind of grudge against the dearly departed over money.”
Though I pretended to shrug off Tom’s revelation that Erlander knew about Mackenzie’s broken pledge to Gwen, it actually worried me almost as much as the news that he obviously still had me in his sights. Though Gwen herself seemed unconcerned, I knew just how wobbly her alibi was—and that, if forced to, she intended to commit perjury. But when I called her the next day to tell her what I’d learned, she quickly sidestepped the subject.
“So you and Tom went out on an actual date?” she said. “I should be jealous. I thought we had him earmarked for me.”
“Did you hear a word I just said, Gwen? Erlander knows all about the pledge. He knows you have a motive for killing Mackenzie. And I bet you anything he’s going to be looking a lot more closely at your relationship.”
“So?” Gwen said. “Like I told you, if he digs anything up, I’m just going to say it’s idle gossip. Hearsay. Jealous old biddies angry that they’re not getting any. Speaking of which, how was he?”
“What?”
“Tom, for heaven’s sakes! What’s he like in bed?”
“We—we haven’t gotten that far,” I told her. “Not everybody hops between the sheets on the first date.”
“That’s true. And I’m just going to ignore the aspersions you seem to be casting in my direction. The fact is, though, you’ve gone way too long without a little carnal pleasure in your life. Don’t you think it’s about time, Alice?”
It was a good question and one, in fact, that I’d been struggling with. Tom had made it clear—though in a gentle and gentlemanly way—that he was ready. But I just couldn’t seem to let myself go any further than the lengthy kiss we exchanged. I was attracted to him. I respected him. I knew him to be a kind and caring person. But something was holding me back.
“Once burnt, twice shy?” Gwen asked.
“I guess so,” I said. “Plus I’ve got a lot of other things on my mind.”
“Well, just don’t wait too long,” Gwen said. “Speaking from experience, I can tell you that if you see anything that looks remotely like happiness—grab it.”
25
Gwen had been planning the benefit at Bridgewater House for several months. She insisted that it be held at the house itself despite its current state of disrepair.
“I think it’s important to get people to come in and actually see it,” she explained when she stopped by my office a week before the event to run her catering choices by me. “I know it’s looking a little worse for wear right now, but it’s really lovely in its own way—and so full of history. I think people need to feel that—to come to know its place in the town and the family who lived there for so many generations. It’s the only way potential donors are going to form an emotional attachment to the house and want to invest in its future.”
“You’ve really been thinking this through,” I told her, impressed by her reasoning.
“I have no choice! This is my one shot this summer at drumming up some attention and support. After Graham made his pledge, I was planning to have the evening serve as a big celebration. Hooray! We’ve reached our goal! But now—without that—I’ve got to find other people who are willing and able to step up and contribute in a major way.”
“How are the RSVPs coming?”
“Okay,” she said, but I could hear the disappointment in her voice. “I’ve got about forty commitments, but a number of the heavy hitters still haven’t responded. And the board isn’t really helping. I was hoping they’d reach out to their wealthy friends in surrounding towns and br
ing in some fresh blood. But it’s like pulling teeth to get them to do anything! They were all so gung ho when I first talked about the benefit, promising me all sorts of support. But now? Since I told them I’m not getting Graham’s million, I feel like they’re blaming me for the money not coming through.”
I remembered what Sal had said about how some members of the Woodhaven Historical Society board were “beginning to wonder if Gwen was up to the job.” And I was worried about what this latest turn of events would mean for her future as executive director. I realized that she’d made a mistake by announcing Mackenzie’s gift before she actually had it in hand. And it had been wrong for her to get involved romantically with a donor, though I believed only myself and maybe Sal knew about that side of the story. But at least she’d been able to land the huge pledge in the first place, even if it didn’t pan out. It seemed unfair that the board wasn’t behind her. As far as I could tell, my friend was going all out to make the campaign to save Bridgewater House a success.
“Let me see your invitation list,” I told her. “I could do some follow-up calls this week if you’d like. And I’d be happy to let my clients know about it. Most of them support the Botanical Garden and other historic Berkshire estates. I’m sure some of them would be interested in helping to preserve Bridgewater House and its gardens.”
“Would you?” Gwen asked. “Oh, Alice, that would be so incredibly wonderful!” If I didn’t know her better I would have suspected there were tears in her eyes.
“Of course,” I said. “And maybe Tom can give me some additional names. He seems pretty tied in to philanthropic circles up here. I bet he’d be willing to lend a hand.”
Over the last couple of weeks Tom and I had been seeing a lot of each other. We’d explored the gardens at Ashintully. Driven down to the Cobble in Ashley Falls and climbed Hurlbut Hill with its stunning views of the surrounding countryside. I was touched and pleased that he suggested excursions he knew would appeal to me. Though I was still not ready to head into the bedroom, we tended to end up after these outings on my living room couch in increasingly more horizontal positions. He began to call me just to talk. We’d fallen into the habit of chatting every night after dinner, catching up on our days, making plans for the upcoming weekend. When he phoned that evening and I told him about Gwen’s dilemma, he volunteered right away to get word out to his extensive contacts about the benefit.
Our phone calls and e-mails obviously did some good. By the time I pulled into the driveway at Bridgewater House on Friday night the parking area behind the house was filled. I had to back out again and find a place in the ranks of cars that were lining either side of the road. It helped, too, that it was such a beautiful late-summer night, the warm, still air alive with the music of crickets and tree frogs. I saw Brook and Michael Bostock ahead of me as I walked along the ten-foot-high yew hedge that screened the estate from the road. I called out to them, and they stopped and waited for me to catch up.
“Thanks so much for coming!” I said when I reached them.
“I’m glad you told us about it,” Brook replied as we made our way down the potholed driveway. “I’ve always loved the look of this place from the outside. It’s great to hear they’re planning on fixing it up. Especially the gardens. Once the weeds start in, these wonderful old borders just don’t stand a chance!”
Handsome and reserved, Michael usually let his wife do all the talking, but he spoke up now. “Are you involved with the group that’s behind this, Alice?”
“A good friend of mine is the executive director.”
“Let them know I’d be happy to help out with the woodwork restoration when the time comes.”
“That’s terrific,” I told him, knowing how much it would mean to Gwen to be able to include Michael Bostock Fine Wood Designs, an award-winning maker of custom furniture, on her list of pro bono donors.
“Isn’t he the best?” Brook asked, taking her husband’s arm as we started up the wide front steps to the wraparound porch, a late-nineteenth-century addition that featured elaborate gingerbread ornamentation. But even in the softening glow of twilight it was obvious that the balusters were chipped and peeling.
Though Gwen had told me about her plans for decorating the formal front rooms for the evening, I was still pleasantly surprised by the magical effect she was able to create by festooning the ceilings with thousands of tiny white blinking lights swathed in gauzy white bunting. She’d cleared most of the furniture from the rooms, which helped emphasize their spacious dimensions as well as the stately multipaned windows and wide-planked floors. The downstairs was filled with well-dressed people, several of whom I didn’t recognize. So the board of directors had come through after all, I thought, corralling their friends from nearby communities.
I saw Sal and Gigi surrounded by others from the group of wealthy homeowners who had helped develop Powell Mountain. I remembered Gwen complaining that these were the sorts of people who tended to “throw all their money at Tanglewood and at Shakespeare and Company and totally ignore this historic gem right here in their own little town.” I was delighted that she would finally have the opportunity to try to enlist them in her cause. And I was pleased to see Vera Yoland and Lisbeth Crocker from the Garden Conservancy, both of whom I’d asked to come, along with several more of my Green Acres clients. I thought it was smart of Gwen to invite folks from the local community as well, including Ron Schlott and his wife.
I was just sorry that Tom, who’d been such a help with the arrangements, wasn’t going to be able to make it. He’d gone down to stay with his youngest in Amherst for the weekend.
About half an hour after I arrived, Sal Lombardi welcomed everyone with a brief speech and then turned things over to Gwen. I thought her pitch was just right—full of interesting anecdotes about the house and gardens, the Bridgewater family and their descendants. She pointed out the historic and architectural significance of the estate. She talked about the plans that the architect had drawn up for the restoration project, and encouraged everyone to take a closer look at the blueprints that were displayed on a table nearby. Then she paused and looked out over the crowd with her brightest smile.
“Just think what it must have been like two hundred or so years ago. On a warm summer night very much like this one, with friends and neighbors gathered in this lovely house for a celebration. A wedding, perhaps, or an important anniversary. Can’t you just hear the voices and the music and the laughter? It all lingers on somehow in these rooms, don’t you think? All that history. The life of the town of Woodhaven. Our town. Please—won’t you join me in helping to keep this beautiful and unique home alive? Join me in restoring it to its rightful place at the heart of our community. For our enjoyment and deeper understanding of our past. And for our children and all those who will come after us.”
The applause was warm and, I thought, heartfelt. But before it had quite died down, I heard a woman behind me say, “You’d never guess what a shameless little hussy she is.”
“Really?” another woman whispered. “No, I wouldn’t. She seems so smart and together.”
“Well, watch her now as she starts to work the room,” Gigi Lombardi replied, because by then I recognized her voice. “She’s going to go around to all the wealthy older men in the crowd and flirt with each and every one of them, like some queen bee collecting pollen.”
“Actually, I don’t think the queen ever collects the—”
“Oh, who cares?” Gigi said irritably, cutting off her companion. “I don’t trust her. I don’t trust any woman who uses her sexuality to get what she wants. And I especially don’t like one who’s so intent on working her wiles on my husband. Look, there she goes now.”
Dismayed, I watched as Gwen sidled up to Sal with a flute of champagne in each hand. Though he at first shook his head, she laughed and pressed one on him and then clinked her glass against his. She leaned in and whispered something in his ea
r, her hair brushing his cheek. Poor Sal! He nodded at whatever she was saying, red-faced, a glazed look in his eye.
“My friend Trish Moorehead serves on the WHS board with Sal,” Gigi continued. “She says that as far as she’s concerned Gwen Boyland only got the position because she played up to all the men on the board. Including Sal, who—and I say this with love—is a total sucker for a pretty face. Gwen called him this week and begged him to bring all our well-connected friends with us tonight. I could hear her wheedling little voice halfway across the room! I know Trish really wants her out, and so do all the other women on the board. She’s barely raised fifty thousand for the restoration campaign so far, though she promised everyone a big pledge was coming in. Well, let me tell you . . .”
I moved discreetly away before I could overhear any more. I was equal parts annoyed with Gigi for spreading such ugly gossip and upset with my dearest friend for giving her every reason to do so. I spent the rest of the reception making nice with the other guests and talking up the restoration project, but my heart had gone out of the evening. I lingered after the others started to leave, helping the catering staff police the rooms for empty plates and glasses.
More sad than angry now, I noticed Gwen on the front porch talking to a tall, balding man sporting a floppy bow tie. She kept touching his arm to make her points and stood on tiptoe to give him a kiss on the cheek when he finally took his leave. But she seemed drained when she walked back into the house.
“You’re such a good pal,” she said, coming up to where I was loading the last of the wineglasses into their carrying racks. The caterers were lugging their equipment out to the van.
Bleeding Heart Page 20