Without Warning

by Joanne Fox Phillips

  “That’s lovely,” I remark. “It looks French. Lanvin?”

  “It is French.” Honey smiles. “St. Vincent de Paul.”

  “The thrift store?” I don’t quite keep the surprise from my voice. I didn’t take her for the type to rummage through the racks, even if that kind of prize might be hidden among the mothballs. Hardly a vow of poverty, even if secondhand. Honey looks a little proud, but only for a moment.

  “Sister Ignatius works the intake room. She knows my size.” She shrugs but doesn’t say anything more. Admitting to being part of a cabal of thrift-store-gaming nuns is probably a bit too far for Honey, but she’s obviously pleased enough with herself to leave it to my imagination. I’m impressed. Maybe we’re a bit more alike than I thought.

  “Lots of money in San Francisco these days,” I comment.

  “Very true. When we started looking out for one another those years ago, this wasn’t exactly what we had in mind.” But she doesn’t seem to be complaining, I notice.

  I turn to Spiro. “Did you have any luck getting the information I asked for?”

  “I got some things,” he says. “I originally spoke with Archbishop Mauriello over the weekend, just after you left. He asked me to come by the offices, and I just did that today.”

  Honey’s eye seems to twitch when he mentions the name Mauriello. It’s the kind of thing only another O’Leary sister might notice. I decide to ask her about it later.

  “Did you tell him about your suspicion that money is being taken?” I ask Spiro.

  “Yes, I did, Tanzie, but he said it was impossible. He told me that he signs every check personally and that his office manager, Mrs. McCrery, would never do anything like that.”

  “That’s what they all say,” I interject.

  “Mrs. McCrery? Tina McCrery, from St. Peter’s Parish?” asks Honey.

  Spiro ponders this for a moment. “Yes, I think that’s right, Honey. I think she used to work at St. Peter’s. Do you know her?”

  “Of course I know Tina. She kept books for us when I was the principal at St. Peter’s. Wonderful woman, simply wonderful. Always working late hours. I wouldn’t think her the type.”

  I believe her, but that’s the thing about fraud: It happens because the people doing it are the ones you would never think to watch.

  “Would she talk to you?” I ask.

  “It should be no trouble at all. I’ll give her a call in the morning. I should have done so ages ago.” She looks at Spiro and then at me. “Isn’t it lovely how the Lord brings people back into our lives? Simply wonderful.”

  “Did you ask for the bank statements?” I ask Spiro, changing the subject.

  “Yes, but Archbishop Mauriello assured me that it wasn’t necessary, because the accounts are audited by a local firm. I can’t remember the name, but I’ll ask him again if you want me to. Maybe we could talk to the local auditors?” Spiro suggests.

  “They’re not going to talk to us,” I say. “Not unless Archbishop Mauriello gives the okay. Let’s start somewhere else. Do you still have the list we put together?”

  “Sure.” He beams, and then he pulls out cocktail napkins from his breast pocket. I stifle a laugh as Spiro flattens out the crumpled paper napkins that he’s saved from our lunch at the airport three days ago. Honey looks perturbed.

  “Oh no,” she interjects. “We need a working list that we can all share. This isn’t the thing for cocktail napkins.” She puts a calming hand on Spiro’s, diligently trying to straighten out the crumpled creases. “At least, not used ones. Tanzie has a computer, though, don’t you?”

  “In my bag.” I feel like a subordinate as I take out my laptop and try to position it on the tiny table.

  The waitress stops by, the same one from last night. She keeps her distance from me. “Sparkling water with lime,” I order. I don’t think a cocktail would work on the second shift. “This lobby bar is probably not a good choice for us to work, Spiro. Can we go to the rectory instead?”

  Spiro frowns and shakes his head. “I don’t feel comfortable working there. Too many people will want to know what we’re doing.”

  “We need a place where we can leave our papers,” I add. “What about the convent, Honey?”

  “No, that won’t work. There’s no space and horrible Internet. Besides, that Sister Mary Agnes will want to get involved, and I don’t want her butting in. Her brother was in the FBI, and she never wants to let us forget it—”

  “We could try my room,” I say, “although it’s tiny. There’s a desk but not enough room for the three of us to work.”

  Honey glares. It appears Mother Superior is not used to being interrupted.

  “I have an idea,” she says, and she gets up and walks dramatically over to the reception desk.

  Spiro and I watch as she speaks to a young guy in a gray blazer. After a moment, he leaves and returns with two other employees. One picks up the phone and hands it to Honey; the other looks like he is entering something into the computer. A good five minutes of negotiation goes by, but when she returns, Honey is beaming. She hands me a key card.

  We follow her over to the reception desk, where one of the gray-blazer guys is waiting to escort us to the elevator. He’s a young man—I’d put him in his late twenties—with the stocky build of a lineman. I notice a very faint outline of a teardrop beside his right eye. It looks like a recently removed prison tattoo. If I’m not mistaken, a teardrop signifies a murderer.

  Great, I think to myself.

  “Will two weeks be enough, Sister?” asks the murderer/bellhop as he slips his key into the security slot and hits the top button.

  “Just until Friday,” I say.

  “Until Sunday,” instructs my sister. “You have to stay the weekend.”

  Of course. Anything you say, Honey. But I can probably work that out with my first-class ticket.

  Honey turns to the bellhop. “We’ll just need it until Sunday, mister—?”

  “Ryan, Sister. Ryan Pixley.”

  “I think that will work just fine, Ryan, and please extend my thanks to your manager, Mr. Rodriguez,” Honey says, and Ryan the Ripper gives a nod.

  We exit the elevator onto the top floor and walk down a long corridor that has a view of the lobby. Ryan inserts the key card and opens the door into what must be their version of a presidential suite. It is a huge space, with two balconies in the living area alone. Spiro places his folder on the midcentury wooden dining-room table that seats eight.

  “Honey,” I say nervously, looking around the kind of suite I haven’t dreamed of expecting to stay in since I was twenty years younger and Winston still cared about globe-trotting—and me. “I still have to report these expenses. I can’t just sign off on whatever I want. My boss gets the bill for the rooms, and he’s …” I lose the word “cheap,” because where would you find it in a room like this? I get a bit lost looking at the stately bar just in front of the full-wall windows that look out upon the best view of San Francisco I’ve ever seen, either as a resident or visitor.

  Honey waves it away. “Hector Rodriguez, the general manager, is a former student of mine. A very good boy and always so gracious to his elders.” She looks around the room and clasps her hands to herself with a small satisfied sigh as if this was just the world working as it was supposed to.

  I run a mental computation of how much everything here must cost. Just the bar would probably eat my whole budget for the trip.

  “Expensive,” I mutter. That’s what Winston would have said—unless, of course, his company was paying for it. He would have said it forty-seven times in just the time we’d been there. Every time he poured a drink. Every time he looked out at the view. He would have muttered it between each earthshaking snore, dreaming of how much prettier all that money would have looked if it were a long-term bond instead. Honey looks away from the stunning view and over to me, genuinely surprised. There’s maybe a bit of concern in her perfectly tweezed eyebrows.

  “Nonsense, Tanzi
e. These kinds of rooms sit empty so much of the time. What a waste that they don’t get to be enjoyed! How grand that there are hidden places all around us that can be so freely given!” She offers a momentary prayer by looking up and nodding. It’s warm and informal, like a text to an old friend. Then she looks back at me. “When we do kindness to one another, we add value to the world,” she says. “Money just moves it around.”

  That probably explains a lot about my life.

  Spiro sees the bar too and closes the distance between the entryway and the top shelf with speed and a certain graceful spring in his step. Perhaps he had been abstaining tonight, but when the Lord provides … “I,” he says, beaming, “am going to have a drink.” He assesses the setup, smiles, nods, and chooses a bottle, twisting off the corked cap in the same practiced motion. He looks happier than I’ve seen him since the confessional. Probably since he was a boy.

  “I will get some ice,” volunteers Ryan. “And, Mrs. Lewis, I’ll have someone move your things up here, if you like.”

  “Thank you, Ryan.” I nod.

  One thing I love about San Francisco is that they call you by your name and not just “ma’am.” Texas, like most of the southern states, trains its citizens from early on to refer to women as “miss” or “ma’am.” It is meant to be polite, but it is anything but. Men are “sirs” whether they are eighteen or eighty, but women transition from “miss” to “ma’am” somewhere in their forties—either in years or in pounds overweight, whichever comes first.

  I find myself smiling while exploring my new surroundings. It’s been a long time since I’ve experienced luxury like this, and I’m glad to be sharing it with Honey and Spiro rather than my awful ex, who would seduce anything in a skirt for a quick boink while I was out shopping or on the golf course. The suite has a lovely marble guest bath near the entrance and a well-appointed living room in addition to the dining area. The bedroom has a private balcony and a huge bath with a separate soaking tub and steam shower. I can’t wait to take a long hot shower and wrap myself in one of the plush bathrobes that’s hanging in my closet.

  “Nicely done, Honey,” I say to my sister.

  There is a low knock at the door, and Ryan reappears with the ice bucket. “May I fix you something?”

  “We are fine. Thank you, Ryan dear.” The way Honey says “dear” communicates that it is time for Ryan to get lost, and he takes the hint.

  “Did you notice the prison tattoo on his face?” I whisper.

  “I have every confidence that our Mr. Pixley is a fine person,” Honey chides. “I’m sure he’ll make a wonderful valet.”

  I consider Honey’s remark. She may be right. Maybe ex-cons make the best attendants. They know exactly what happens to snitches, after all. That kind of lesson stays with a guy, I suppose.

  “Now, let’s all sit down at the table,” Honey commands.

  With that, I set up my computer, and Spiro hands me the napkins to key in. Honey starts to thumb through the cardboard folder that Spiro brought.

  “I thought you said you didn’t get the bank statements?” she asks. “Isn’t this a bank statement?” She holds up a Wells Fargo envelope.

  “Oh, I took that out of Mrs. McCrery’s inbox,” Spiro says sheepishly. “She’d gone home early, and I saw it there. I can take it back tomorrow.”

  “Spiro,” I chide. “You can’t just take someone’s things off their desk without permission.”

  He looks confused, but he takes a sip of his drink to process what I’ve said. Most people don’t understand that there’s a protocol to be followed during audits. You must ask permission for everything you take. It’s not some cloak-and-dagger, sneak-around-at-night-and-rifle-through-desks kind of thing. Private eyes on TV give auditors a bad reputation. But even after I’ve explained it to Spiro, I can tell he doesn’t get it. Apparently, priests operate with their own set of rules. They are conduits to God, after all. Why shouldn’t they just take church financial records home whenever they want?

  All of this makes no difference, so I sit down next to Spiro and carefully open the bank statement. I give Spiro and Honey a quick course on how to review a bank statement for fraud.

  “First, look at the back pages with the copies of the checks,” I explain. “Do any of the payees look funny or look like they’ve been altered? Is Mauriello’s signature on all the checks? Do any of the signatures look different from the others, or do any of them look like a stamp?”

  My eager students are all in, so while they carefully inspect the checks, I pour myself a glass of Chardonnay from the bar. Being in charge is so much better than doing the actual work.

  In the end, nothing on the payment side sticks out, so I instruct them to look at the deposit slip copies. “Is any cash deposited? Should any cash be deposited? Has any cash been deducted from the deposit?”

  The two carefully examine their paperwork, while I sip my wine.

  “There are only a few deposits on this statement,” says Spiro. “They total around $10,000 or $12,000.”

  “Should there be more?” I ask.

  He considers. “Most of their money comes from their annual golf tournament and their gala. The gala’s this week, I think. I’ve never been. These deposits look like they’re from the Friday dinners and some personal donations.”

  “Hey, why don’t we go to the gala, Honey?” I suggest. I’m feeling pretty good about how the evening’s going. Honey may be bossy, but she delivered first-class accommodations. “Come on, it might be fun. Let’s see if Blondie wants to go—girls’ night out.”

  Spiro has wandered over to the bar for an encore. “Sorry, Tanzie,” he interjects. “The event gets sold out every year. It’s absolutely huge. Senators, the mayor, all kinds of San Francisco dignitaries.”

  Honey gives a subtle frown. I’m wondering if Mr. Rodriguez has any clout over the church as well, but I decide not to ask.

  Next, we move to the bank reconciliations. We only have one bank statement, so we can’t really do much testing of the reconciliations, but I tell them to look for old outstanding checks or other reconciling items that seem odd. “If Mrs. McCrery prepares the bank reconciliations and handles the donations that come in, that could be a problem,” I say. “It’s called segregation of duties. Certain jobs should be handled by two different people so that they can’t cover things up.”

  “I told you, Tanzie. Tina McCrery would never steal! Never!” insists Honey. “Honestly, Tanzie—first you comment about Ryan being in prison, and now you’re accusing Tina. You always think the worst about people.”

  No, I don’t, I think to myself, although I recall the encounter with Ted from Wales this morning and then think, well, maybe I do. Still, I know I’m right about the bookkeeper. We’re not sure if money is even missing yet, but if it is, the person taking it is either the bookkeeper or someone the bookkeeper knows. Anyone who has spent time in auditing knows not to eliminate anyone based upon feelings and emotions. The same is true with my day job: Even though Sandy is as sure that Marshall is guilty as I am that he’s not, nothing matters in the end except facts, so I let Honey’s angry remark go. In the end, the evidence will speak for itself.

  They’re busy examining the reconciliations when Spiro’s phone rings. The ringtone sounds like horns at the beginning of a fox hunt. He takes the call. By the time he finishes, his face is pale.

  “I need to go,” he says. “They’ve asked me to go to the hospital to administer last rites.”

  “Extreme unction?” I ask.

  “It’s called the anointing of the sick now,” says Honey smugly, seizing yet another opportunity to point out lapses in my Catholic training.

  “Thank you,” I say, heading to the bar for a refill.

  “It’s Mrs. McCrery,” Spiro says.

  Suddenly Honey’s voice doesn’t sound smug anymore. “What?!”

  “I don’t know anything, Honey, but I’ll keep you in the loop,” Spiro says as he walks out of the room.

  Honey
closes the suite door and heads to the bar, her face suddenly a mix of doubt, shock, and sorrow. I pour my sister a glass of Chardonnay and hand it to her as she starts to cry. We head over to the couch in the living space.

  “I’m so sorry, Honey,” I tell her. “Was she sick?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Honey says, taking a sip of wine. She puts the glass down on the cocktail table and looks around. I hand her one of Spiro’s cocktail napkins, and she wipes her eyes and follows up with a delicate blow of her nose. She hands me the used napkin, and I take it to the trash for her.

  “Any idea what might have happened?” I ask, returning to the couch. Honey just stares at her wine glass. I wonder what she’s thinking. Perhaps of the last time she saw Tina? Or perhaps she’s feeling guilty for not calling her in ages. I decide to break the silence.

  “Honey, could foul play be involved?”

  She doesn’t answer, but she gives me a look that communicates how utterly ridiculous my suggestion is. It probably is. Life tends to be mundane. A traffic accident, heart attack, or stroke are the more likely scenarios. Then a thought comes into my head, and in the brief moment before it exits my lips, I think about staying silent. But I decide not to. This is my line of work. I may not know much about the current term for extreme unction, but I know fraud.

  “You know, sometimes embezzlers commit suicide,” I say. “They just can’t live with the guilt and shame.”

  Honey diverts her eyes momentarily, like she’s thinking about it, and then she looks straight at me. It’s a cold look. No, more a look of disappointment. She puts her wine glass on the table, walks to the dining-room table, and collects her purse. Then she exits the suite without looking back at me.

  I think about running after her, but I don’t. Instead, I sit on the low couch and consider what I’ve done. My emotions are mixed and hard for me to figure out. A shower doesn’t help. Neither does the plush bathrobe.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Wednesday Morning

  The suite has a Nespresso machine, so I brew my cup of coffee Americano and then go out to my balcony for the morning cigarette. Thick fog blocks my view of the Embarcadero, but it is enjoyable nonetheless.