Without Warning

by Joanne Fox Phillips

  After Spiro leaves, Honey sits down at the table with me. She blows her nose and wipes it repeatedly before looking up. “I’m not hungry,” she says, pushing the salad away.

  I am hungry, and I start eating my salad, which is a marvelous Crab Louis with avocado.

  “I meant what I said about Archbishop Mauriello,” Honey says after a few minutes, “and Spiro knows that something’s going on. I think Tina told Spiro something before she died, but Spiro can’t say anything.”

  “Why not?” I ask. “She’s dead.”

  “A priest can never divulge a confession, even after the person dies,” she explains. “It’s sacred. I know Mauriello, and he’s … he’s a snake.” Honey purses her lips, stopping herself from going on. Maybe it’s considered un-nunly to rant about an archbishop. “He is so pompous, tooling around the Bay in his yacht. Taking all the who’s who of San Francisco up to some boutique winery in Napa for ‘retreats.’”

  I perk up here a bit. “He has a yacht?” I ask. “Not much of a vow of poverty going on.”

  “Priests don’t take a vow of poverty, Tanzie. Not unless they’re Jesuit.” Honey reminds me once again of my Catholic knowledge gap.

  “Where does he get his money, then?” I ask. “Is he from a rich family?”

  “Hardly,” she says. “Did you know he was a street thug as a teenager?”

  How would I know that? I think, but I just shake my head.

  “Sister Ignatius told me,” she continues. “He was in and out of foster care and juvenile detention until one of the priests took an interest in him and sent him to a Catholic group home. He became a star athlete at the Catholic high school in Morristown. He seemed to turn his life around. Then he joined the seminary and began his climb up the hierarchy.”

  “That sounds like a great story, Honey,” I say. “Don’t you believe people can change?”

  “Absolutely I do. I’ve seen it,” Honey says emphatically. “But he doesn’t have any family money, so how can he afford a yacht? I did a little research on my own, Tanzie. I Googled red flags for embezzlers. Living beyond their means is number one.”

  I am well acquainted with those red flags but, in the interest of family harmony, decide to let her school me on the subject. And the truth is, she’s right, although there are plenty of people who live way beyond their means without pilfering to solve their problems. Still, controls that might prevent theft are often lacking in small organizations, and the head honcho usually has plenty of access. It’s not impossible that Mauriello is the thief, but that certainly doesn’t explain why Tina would kill herself. My money’s still on the bookkeeper.

  “Look, Honey,” I say. “Even if he is stealing, there’s nothing for me to do. Spiro said he thought we shouldn’t continue with this investigation.”

  My sister lowers her eyes, and I sense a seclusion episode looming.

  “I’d like to clear Tina’s name,” she says, breaking the silence. “I don’t want people thinking her sad death was because she was a criminal. Tina would never steal from such a wonderful organization as St. Benedict’s, and I don’t want anyone thinking that she would.”

  “Who thinks that?” I ask.

  “You do.” Honey takes the last bit of scotch in her glass and walks over to the bar to put it in the sink. She leans with her back resting on the cabinets, arms crossed.

  I fish around for more bits of crab on the plate. I’m down to just the lettuce and hardboiled egg.

  “Honey, really. What do you want me to do?”

  “Nothing. Nothing, Tanzie. It’s all right. Just go back to Houston, and don’t worry about anyone but yourself.”

  Oh God, here it comes—classic Catholic guilt trip. I’m getting tired of it, and I’ve just made up my mind to tell her I’m leaving for Houston as soon as I can, when I get up to fetch another bottle of water and bang my shin on the table leg.

  “Ouch!” I shout.

  I look at Honey and shake my head. I get the message, I say to myself, sitting back down.

  “Okay, so tell me why you think the archbishop is the one who’s embezzling,” I say calmly once I sit back down. “Even if he is suspicious in your eyes, couldn’t there have been plenty of other people responsible?”

  “Because of Spiro’s transfer,” she answers. “Why now, right after Tina died? The day after, even? Spiro’s been here for years. What’s so urgent that he needs to leave right away?” Honey asks.

  “I don’t know.” I shrug.

  “Well, I do,” she says. “I think Tina knew the archbishop was stealing, and she told Spiro that before she died. Her final confession.”

  “All right,” I say. “Then why did Tina kill herself? Why didn’t she just tell the police? Don’t Catholics go to Hell if they commit suicide? That’s what I remember from Catholic school.”

  “They’ve softened their position. You would know this if you hadn’t left the church, Tanzie.”

  I let the remark go by, offering it up to Tina McCrery, who could probably use some help given the circumstances. Honey reaches down and takes two bottles of water from the refrigerator. She hands one to me, and I thank her for reading my mind.

  “I understand that you’d prefer to just go home and forget about this whole situation,” she says, “but can you just tell me, before you do, how I should do an investigation? Can you just help me do this? Is that too much to ask, after all I’ve done for you?”

  I’m still not convinced. As suspicious as Mauriello’s yacht is, we didn’t see anything unusual in the bank statement. There’s an accusation but no evidence at all. It’s the opposite of Westwind, where the whole situation is full of red flags, yet I know for a fact that the accusation is false. All this makes no difference to my sister, though, and I can see that she will not give up.

  I sigh. “Yes. For as long as I’m here, I can help you,” I say finally.

  She doesn’t look surprised. “All right, tell me where to start,” she says.

  “Can you somehow get a hold of the rest of Mrs. McCrery’s—I mean, Tina’s—accounting records?”

  “Great. Maybe we can break into the archbishop’s office?” my sister, the nun, suggests.

  “Breaking into offices is not what I do for a living,” I say, wondering if Spiro somehow divulged my confession to my sister using some ecumenical technicality. “Where is the archbishop’s office?”

  “Near Geary and Franklin,” she says. “Over by St. Mary’s Cathedral. It’d be easy for me to run over there for the files quickly, before you get back this evening, and then we’ll look at them together tonight.”

  It’s not presented as a choice, so I give Honey the list I gave Spiro, updated to exclude the documents he’s already given us. Then I mumble an expletive as I look at my watch. It’s five minutes to two.

  “Thank you, Tanzie. This means a lot. God is on our side, and he will thank you, Tanzie. You’ll see. He works in very mysterious ways.” The comment is sincere, but I can’t help feeling exhausted from having been sucked back into an investigation I thought I’d shed. My penance continues, it seems. Perhaps the good Lord will help me keep all the plates spinning.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Wednesday Afternoon

  When I arrive back at the conference room, Sandy is talking to Marshall. I apologize for being late—family emergency, I tell them—but Marshall waves it aside. “I was just telling Sandy about our charity event tonight, and I wanted to know if you ladies wanted to join me?” Marshall says. “Sorry for the late notice, but we just had a couple of cancellations. Sue from engineering and her husband have a sick baby. Olivia, or is it Emma? No, pretty sure it’s Olivia. I met them at a picnic we had in April.”

  Sandy stifles a laugh by biting her lip at the incessant details conveyed.

  “It’s for St. Benedict’s Homeless Shelter. It’s out at Fort Mason. Should be an early evening,” he pleads.

  I immediately perk up. St. Benedict’s?

  “Westwind supports religious charities?
” I ask. “Is that allowed?”

  “It’s all kosher, ladies.” Marshall gives me a wink. “Brian gave me the okay. I sit on their board, you know.”

  Sandy nods in approval; CoGenCo policy requires CEO approval for large charitable donations.

  “St. Benedict’s does wonderful work,” Marshall continues. “I wouldn’t call it altogether a religious charity—they provide help for everyone, not just Catholics. Westwind made a sizable donation last month. I have an email from Brian authorizing it, if you want to see it.”

  “That’s all right,” I say. “I believe you.”

  “I know you have work to do, so I’ll get out of your way. Let me know what you decide, but let me know soon—I’d like to be able to fill the spots. I’d love for you ladies to join me tonight.”

  Marshall smiles as he says this, so I smile back. Then he leaves, and I turn to Sandy to gauge her interest. She hates Marshall, so I’m anticipating a big hell no! My mind is racing as I try to figure out a way to get her on board; after my lunch with Honey, I’m curious to meet this archbishop for myself.

  To my surprise, she squeals. “I want to go! I love these things. The people, the food, the silent auctions. Besides, it might be good to get old Marshall loosened up. Maybe he’ll slip. Say something he shouldn’t.”

  “Okay, Sandy,” I say, booting up my laptop. “I’m in.”

  I call Marshall’s office and leave a message with Phyllis, who sounds disappointed at our acceptance. Perhaps she was next in line. She gives us logistics and tells us that our names will be on the list.

  “So, what’s the plan for all of this?” I ask, looking around at all the binders and files.

  “We can do this, Tanzie,” Sandy says with the cheerful encouragement of a woman who just scored a ticket to the hottest gala in San Francisco. “Let’s get’er done.”

  We spend the rest of the afternoon with our heads deep in the binders, looking up invoice details and referring back to contracts. It is teamwork at its finest, and Sandy, when focused, is phenomenal. At one point, I take a break to call Honey and tell her that there’s been a change of plans and I can’t meet her tonight.

  “I’ve been invited to the St. Benedict’s gala tonight by the Westwind execs,” I say. “Turns out they’re big contributors. I’ll try to meet the archbishop.”

  “Really.” There’s a reserved surprise in her voice. “I’ve never been, but I hear he puts on quite a show.”

  “I’ll try to meet him, Honey,” I say. “Look him in the eyes. Let you know what I think about your theory, okay? In the meantime, hang on to whatever you’ve found at the diocesan office until tomorrow.”

  “I’m happy to meet you tonight after your event,” she says eagerly. “I don’t mind.”

  “Don’t worry about it! Tomorrow’s fine,” I say. “Oh no, my boss is calling me. I have to go, Honey.” I hang up before she can argue.

  Honestly, I don’t expect to find anything out of the ordinary when I meet the archbishop. It’s not impossible that Mauriello would be involved in fraud; it’s just hard for me to believe that an archbishop, even one who lives beyond his means, would do something like that. But I don’t want to argue with Honey any more about this, and it’s true that the timing of Spiro’s transfer is suspicious. If nothing else, the coincidence of my two investigations being linked in some way is worth spending a little time checking out.

  When I get back to our work area, Sandy has a stack of expense reports waiting for me.

  “Thanks,” I say, my smile full of sarcasm.

  At first, expense report reviewing is fun. You get to live vicariously through the details. Where someone went, what they ate and drank. You can tell if someone’s a big tipper or a cheapskate pretty quickly. Marshall is cheap, and Doug’s a big spender. Not much of a surprise. According to the experts, persons inclined to steal often cheat on their expense reports, with this being the gateway drug to bigger and better schemes down the road. Nothing is sticking out in my review.

  “What are you going to wear tonight?” I ask Sandy at one point to break the monotony. She looks up and makes a face.

  “I have a black dress. It’s not a cocktail dress, but it’s the best I can do on short notice,” she says. “By the way, it’s close to five thirty—we should probably get on out of here. I’d like some time to fix my face and put some hot rollers in my hair.”

  On the walk back to the hotel, I tell Sandy about the Boomer incident at Peet’s yesterday. I suggest we pop in for a quick look around, but she isn’t interested in absorbing any additional work. Still, the idea of a late coffee is compelling to me, so I peel off from Sandy when we walk past Peet’s. As I wait in line, I give a quick look around the tables. As could be expected, there’s no Gerard.

  The young male barista from yesterday has been replaced with a twentyish young woman with short red hair.

  “Has anyone named Gerard been by today?” I ask and then add, “Or Boomer?”

  The woman looks up at me while spooning froth onto a latte. “I think that’s private information,” she says, with a frown.

  “What’s private about it?” I ask. “You write people’s names on the cups and call them when their drink is ready. That isn’t very private.” I wasn’t under the impression that Peet’s had a privacy policy. I wonder if she’s Canadian. They seem to be a bit obsessed with privacy.

  “Are you the police?” she asks impertinently.

  I think about saying that I am. How would she know? Lord knows plenty of folks at CoGenCo think of me as the police. The company fuzz. I decide not to lie, not because it has anything to do with my path to redemption but more because I would be embarrassed if she asked me for some sort of ID and all I could produce was my business card.

  “No,” I say finally. “I’m not the police. Just trying to track down an old friend. He used to come in here. That’s all,” I say.

  “What was the name?” she asks, a bit more relaxed.

  “Gerard,” I repeat. “Or Boomer.”

  The barista shakes her head. “Large soy latte for Sydney!” she shouts, turning away from me, and I decide to forget the whole thing.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Wednesday Night

  Sandy and I meet for the gala in the Hyatt lobby by the Eclipse Bar. I have on a basic black pantsuit with sensible pumps. I look like I’m on my way to a job interview. If I’d had more notice, I could have asked Honey to bring a ball gown over from the thrift store. Sandy, on the other hand—with the help of a hotel sewing kit—has transformed her black business dress into a pure bombshell, unbuttoning it just enough to showcase her impressive cleavage. She seems happier than I have ever seen her, and many heads turn, wondering who this gorgeous woman walking past them is.

  “Let’s have some fun, Tanzie,” she says as we stroll through the lobby.

  Fort Mason is a converted army base on the northwest side of the San Francisco Bay. It houses a smattering of trendy restaurants and artist studios, and it offers a large closed pavilion for not-for-profit events. On a clear day, the view is breathtaking, but this evening the notorious San Francisco fog has rolled in, obscuring any hint of the Golden Gate Bridge. Our cab joins the parade of cars and limos in the circular drive in front of the main building.

  The space is crowded, but I spot Marshall at a cocktail table talking with the archbishop. I’m not sure what I had imagined Archbishop Mauriello to look like, but it certainly was nothing like the gentleman talking to Marshall. I’d only seen one or two archbishops before in my life, but they brought to mind a weathered, gray fellow with the requisite belly that often accompanies powerful men in clergy. This man couldn’t be more than forty-five or fifty years old. He is almost a foot taller than Marshall and has an athletic build, chiseled features, and a mop of black curls. His black cassock, trimmed in red, and matching beanie present a stark contrast to the other men in their tuxedos. He is the listener, as most are when stuck in a conversation with Marshall; but when he laughs, it seems ge
nuine. He’s good, I think. From across the room, with a drink in hand and a Hollywood smile, Mauriello appears more like a highly polished business executive than a man of the cloth.

  As we walk across the room, I catch Marshall’s eye, and he gestures for us to come closer.

  “Let me introduce you,” Marshall says. “Archbishop Mauriello, this is Sandy DeHart and Tanzie Lewis, visitors from our corporate office in Houston.”

  Mauriello gives me a polite handshake, but he’s clearly taken by Sandy. Sandy in heels and big hair is almost the same height as the archbishop. They fit well together, as both are absolutely stunning examples of human beauty.

  “I like your necklace,” Sandy gushes. “Are those real rubies?”

  Mauriello issues an isn’t she darling grin.

  “It’s called a pectoral cross, and yes, they are real rubies. This was a gift from a parishioner when I received my appointment. I’m glad you like it.” The gold cross is as large as my palm and hangs from a thick gold chain around Mauriello’s neck. There is a rounded center ruby of at least two carats and small channel-set diamonds that extend out to rubies at the end points of the cross.

  “Is it antique?” I ask.

  Mauriello cocks his head.

  “The cut of the rubies,” I explain. “Rose cuts usually date to the 1800s, sometimes even earlier.” An appreciation of fine jewelry is one of the few benefits I gained from having been married to Winston Lewis.

  “Actually, the stones are vintage,” he says. “The cross was custom-made at Gumps, but the stones were from a family piece belonging to the parishioner.”

  “Tanzie has an eye for details,” Sandy interjects.

  It is clear that neither Mauriello nor Sandy is interested in a quick course on gemology, however, for they peel off toward the bar and leave Marshall and me by ourselves. Sandy seems to have completely abandoned her plan to interrogate Marshall.

  “I didn’t know you knew the archbishop,” I say.

  “Of course!” He beams. “We’re pretty good friends, actually. The archbishop and I have lunch a couple times a year. Sometimes we get in a round of golf. Great guy. Absolute saint.” Marshall puts his hands together in prayer and looks to the heavens for emphasis.