by Ann McMan
“You always were a quick study, Mother.”
Katherine Donne actually started to smile, but managed to rein it in at the last moment.
“If you’re here to discuss business, I already made it clear that I have no interest in that.”
“It’s not business,” Julia corrected her. “At least, not publishing business.” Julia didn’t bother to share with her mother that some of her plans actually would have a significant impact on the family business. That could all come later—depending, in large part, upon the outcome of this visit.
“What is it, then?”
Julia could detect a tinge of wariness in her mother’s question.
She resolved to allay the suspicion that lurked behind her mother’s query. “I’m not here to discuss my relationship with Evan Reed, either.”
Her mother seemed to relax. A little.
“Why are you here, Julia?” She asked in a softer tone.
Julia realized this was as close to empathetic as her mother could get. It reminded her of her mother’s first question when she’d heard the shocking news about Andy’s death: “But, what will you do?” Even in the throes of her own jumbled haze of shock and confusion, Julia noticed that her mother’s initial response wasn’t to ask, “How are you?”
There was no reason to put off their conversation. But Julia thought it might go better if they at least engaged in some kind of convivial activity. Something that might help level the emotional playing field and hint at memories of a shared past. Good memories.
“Could we make some tea?” She asked. “Some of grandmother’s Earl Grey?”
The exotic, bergamot-scented tea was the first one Julia had ever tasted. On her sixth birthday, her mother and grandmother, both wearing hats and white gloves, had taken her for her first afternoon tea at the Crystal Tea Room in Wanamaker’s Department Store. Julia recalled sitting very stiffly on her chair and the struggle she had had to imitate her hostesses, who seemed to have no difficulty manipulating the small cakes and fig sandwiches with their gloved fingers. Julia marveled at the delicate French china teacups, ornamented with pink asters and gold-trimmed ribbon handles. That had been one of the happiest memories of her childhood. She recalled the easy conversation between her mother and grandmother—how they talked about the right time to set gladiolus bulbs in their flower gardens, and predictions that spring weather would arrive earlier than forecast.
Julia carried those memories with her. And ever since, especially during times of uncertainty or discord, she had taken respite in the sweet simplicity and civility that were always delivered inside a cup of hot tea.
Her mother didn’t question her request. Julia took that as a hopeful sign as the two of them made their silent way to Katherine Donne’s small but well-appointed kitchen. The single window in this room faced west, and afforded a view of the sixth-century Benedictine abbey.
Julia set the kettle to boil on the blue-enameled La Cornue range. She recalled when her parents bought the coveted apartment on Saint-Germain-des-Prés, and promptly began upfitting everything in it. Julia had visited Paris to tour their new home, and she remembered how the kitchen designer had rhapsodized to her mother about how the range’s electric oven could “bake a more stable and precise chamomile cake” than any other designer range in its class. Julia’s father had scoffed and remarked that for €49,000, it should do the dishes, too. Julia’s mother had simply blinked at the overzealous designer and asked if the range were available in blue.
While they waited for the water to heat, Julia’s mother opened a mahogany tea box and set about scooping a generous portion of the fragrant leaves into an old china pot that had been in the family for generations.
Julia retrieved two porcelain cups from a china closet and took a seat at the small kitchen table. Her mother carried a pitcher over to her dark blue Smeg and filled it from a container of cream, before joining her at the table. She made no comment about why Julia chose to sit there instead of returning to the living room.
The companionable quiet they shared was a welcome change from the terseness of their interactions when Julia had first arrived. It was so easy and unaffected that Julia hated to shatter it with her questions. But there was little benefit to be gained by putting off the inevitable.
Once they both held their steaming cups of Earl Grey, Julia steeled her determination and opened the discussion.
“How much did you know about Dad’s trust when he established it?”
Her mother seemed unfazed by the question. “He told me about it, of course. He wanted to have control over where some of his assets went.”
“Did you know any details about its specific provisions?”
“Not really. As I told you, I never had an active role in business decisions.”
“But this wasn’t about business, Mother. It was about Dad’s desire to fund . . . things that mattered to him personally. Did he ever share any information with you about those? Or ask for your input?”
“No. But I don’t find that unusual. Apparently you do, so would you like to share your reasons for asking these questions?”
Julia chose her words carefully. She knew her mother had instincts like a wild animal, and would flee at the first hint of anything that threatened the stability of her environment.
“I spent some time with the estate attorney on Monday, reviewing the specifics of some of the trust beneficiaries. There were some things I found . . . confusing. I wanted to share them with you, to see if you could shed any light on what his motivation might have been for some of these.”
Her mother picked up on one detail of Julia’s explanation. “Did you say you reviewed the documents on Monday? As in the day before yesterday?”
Julia nodded.
“And what you discovered concerned you enough that you flew to Paris to see me? Immediately and without warning?”
“I suppose so.”
“You suppose so?” her mother asked somewhat pointedly.
“Yes,” Julia admitted. “What I found concerned me a great deal—enough to know that I needed to talk with you about it. And that is why I’m here.”
“Why the urgency? Surely, there can have been nothing in your father’s estate plan that warranted such an extreme response.”
This was getting her nowhere. She needed just to come out with it.
“Mother, did you know that a significant portion of Dad’s trust—the lion’s share, actually—is committed to support certain . . .” She searched for the right word—something innocuous enough not to alienate or antagonize her mother. “Projects. Projects confined to a small circle at his club?” Her use of the benign word to describe a horrifying and contemptible practice sickened her.
“No. I was unaware of that. But I see nothing untoward in it. Your father was devoted to his club. As you know, his work allowed him little enough time to develop or nurture other interests.”
Dear god . . . “other” interests?
“There were some other peculiarities, as well,” Julia added. “It appeared that Dad sometimes used the fund to pay for . . . expenses—sometimes in large amounts of cash—to . . .” She hesitated. “Men. Young men.”
Julia’s mother abruptly pushed back her chair and got to her feet. “I will not listen to this.”
“Mother . . .”
“No. I understand what you’re trying to suggest and it’s . . . repugnant.”
“I’m not trying to ‘suggest’ anything, Mother. I am asking you if you knew anything about these payments. I’m trying to find a context for these disbursements that makes sense.”
Her mother walked to the sink with her teacup and emptied it. She faced Julia with an icy expression.
“There is no context for it that makes sense, and you understand that as well as I.”
“But . . .”
“But, nothing. I discovered your father’s illicit, private . . . tendencies years ago—when you were just a baby. The discovery was devastating to me. I had little
choice but to do what I had to do to save my reputation—and yours—and spare us both the ruinous effects of a heinous disclosure. I never allowed myself to think about any of those behaviors, or about the time he spent indulging himself at his precious club—and I refuse to do so now, just to satisfy your prurient curiosity.”
“Prurient curiosity?” Julia’s temper flared. “How dare you suggest that I might derive some kind of twisted pleasure from this discovery?”
“Why should I think otherwise, based on your recent revelations about your own proclivities?”
Proclivities? Julia was outraged. “How can you possibly equate my honest avowal of my sexual orientation—or anyone’s—with pedophilia? That is an ignorant and offensive comparison with no basis in fact.”
Julia’s mother had regained some of her composure, but her frozen countenance did not change.
“You sound as if you’ve researched the topic. If so, then perhaps you’ll discover, like I did, that it’s preferable to look the other way. My advice is to let the dead lie buried, Julia. What he did has no bearing on our lives.”
“How can you say that? How can you believe that? Especially if you knew what he was doing all those years?” Julia was staggered by this callous expression of her mother’s dismissive attitude toward her husband’s horrific behavior. It was equally disgusting that her mother admitted to adopting a tacit indulgence of it because it mattered more to her to preserve her life of privilege.
But Katherine Donne had had enough of their conversation. She held up a hand to halt Julia’s tirade.
“I am finished with this discussion, Julia. I will listen to no more of this. You are welcome to rest or shower or do whatever you wish while you remain here. I am going out.” She left the kitchen.
Julia stood up belatedly and followed her mother into the living room.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“Out. I honestly do not care where.” Her mother withdrew a heather-colored Lolë jacket from her foyer closet, and retrieved her handbag from a shelf. “I have dinner plans tonight. Do not expect me back here before ten.” She strode to the front door, and exited the apartment without looking back.
Julia stared dumbly at the back of the carved, French colonial door until the sonorous ding of the elevator bell brought her back to reality.
She sank onto the arm of a chair.
Now what?
◊ ◊ ◊
Tim called Evan back a few minutes before he had to head over to the church to hear confession. Her phone rolled to voicemail so he left her details about connecting in Center City for dinner, instead of meeting up at St. Rita’s:
“Hey, Evan. It’s me. Tonight works fine, but you’ll need to meet me at the DoubleTree on South Broad Street. I got a call from another former basketball team member, Mike Duffy. I don’t think you knew him, but he was only at St. Rita’s a little while. He lives in Phoenix now but is back in town on business. He says he saw Mark Atwood after I was there. He wants to talk with me about Father Szymanski, so I’m meeting him at the hotel at 6. We’ll be in the lobby bar if you get there early, or I can text you when we finish up. I’m on my way to hear confession right now, so I’ll be offline for a while. Catch up with you in a bit.”
By the time Tim got back to his quarters, he was already on the cusp of running late for his meeting with Mike Duffy. He hadn’t been scheduled to perform the sacrament today, but Father Langley was sick with a sore throat, and the parish priest, Father Joseph, had asked Tim to take his place. It was just Tim’s luck that there was a larger than usual turnout.
He thought old Mrs. Magill would never finish . . .
She was legendary at the parish. They all joked about how she used the confessional as her primary social outlet. It was poignant and irksome all at the same time.
He changed out of his vestments as quickly as possible and was on his way out the door when he noticed the message light blinking on his phone. He deliberated about whether or not to take the time to listen to it. He checked his watch. Damn. With traffic, he’d be doing good to make it to the hotel on time. He knew he couldn’t call Mike, and he didn’t want to leave him stranded for too long, waiting in the parking garage.
He decided he’d check the message later, after he got home.
◊ ◊ ◊
As predicted, Dan had been pissed at Evan’s reluctance to include everything she’d discovered about the Galileo Club in her report.
“Why the fuck not?” he demanded. “It’s not up to you to decide what’s relevant and what isn’t. You just need to report the facts.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you for the last half hour,” Evan asserted. “The rest of this—the stuff about other club members—is supposition, not fact. None of it is corroborated yet.”
“So what?”
“Whattaya mean, ‘so what’? Aren’t you the one who told me not to bring you anything you couldn’t take to court?”
Dan looked up from the pages of notes from Ping. “Not when it’s this fucking salacious.”
“Since when is the creep factor a gauge of what is and isn’t admissible?” Evan huffed.
“Since it started including the names of assholes who have been personally financing regressive political agendas in this country for a goddamn quarter century. That’s when.”
“I will not let you use this, Dan. Not now.”
“Not now?” he repeated her caveat. “Why not now?”
“Because there are certain to be a lot of innocent people who will be tainted by all of this. We don’t have all the facts yet.”
“Who are you protecting?”
“No one.”
“Bullshit. I know you.” Dan looked over the pages from Ping more carefully.
Evan gave up. It had been insanity to think she’d ever be able to stonewall him.
“Julia’s father,” she said without preamble.
He looked up at her. “What?”
“Julia’s father, Lewis Donne. He was one of Cawley’s cronies at the club—along with the bishop and a few other blue-blooded scions of the city.”
“Jesus H. Christ, Evan.”
“Tell me about it.” She nodded miserably.
“How the fuck did you find out about that?”
Evan opened her mouth to explain about their second-story work on Sunday night, but Dan held up a hand to stop her. “Never mind . . . I don’t wanna know.”
“Wise decision,” she said.
He sat down. “How much time do you need?”
“I don’t know.” Evan shrugged. “A week maybe? Julia is in Paris right now, talking with her mother.”
“Julia knows about this?” Dan was incredulous.
“Yeah. She found out on her own.”
“How?”
“She was the one who identified her father—and the Galileo Club—in the photo you got from Marcus, the one with Cawley and Miller.”
Dan raised an eyebrow. “I never said that picture came from Marcus.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, okay. So what if it did come from him?”
“Dan. He had a reason to give that to you. And it wasn’t philanthropic.”
“Why do you think he sent it to us?”
“Precisely so I would do what I did: dive down a useless rabbit hole and waste most of a week trying to track it down. He knew exactly what he was doing. He was buying time for Cawley.”
“Cawley? Why the fuck would Marcus want to help Cawley?”
“Jesus, Dan.” Evan’s frustration began to overflow. “Why the hell do you keep wearing blinders around him? Remember the Miller campaign? Didn’t that teach you anything about this scumbag’s moral compass? Marcus will help anybody who pays him enough. I’ll give you one guess who that might be.”
“Who?”
“Take your pick.” Evan handed him the list of names attached to the Citizens for Integrity in Government PAC. “But if we’re taking bets, my money is on Cawley.”
<
br /> “Fuck.” Dan lowered the list to his knee.
“Everything I found is in the report I’ll be sending you this afternoon. Take my word for it, Dan—Miller was murdered to protect Cawley. And so was Joey Mazzetta.”
“Mazzetta? What did Mazzetta’s death have to do with Cawley?”
“Joey was one of the boys on the St. Rita’s basketball team who the bishop and his cronies at Cawley’s club preyed on. He was going to meet Tim the night he was killed—to spill his guts about all of it. But first, he made a side trip to the Galileo Club. He was dead drunk, but he managed to sneak in through a service entrance. He made his way to one of the club’s dining room and made a hell of a scene, sounding off about Cawley and the bishop in front of everyone who was there—and it was a Friday night, so the place was teeming with people. Joey said to tell the bishop and the judge he was there to ‘collect the rent.’ Club security tossed him out and the police responded. But guess what?”
“They never pressed charges?”
“Bingo. Joey ended up dead an hour later. Killed by a bullet fired from a Tokarev 7.62.” She let that sink in. “Ring any bells?”
“Should it?” Dan asked.
“Yeah. It’s Maya’s weapon of choice—the same one she used to kill Andy Townsend.”
“Maya Jindal?”
“The one and only,” Evan said. “And here’s another little happy coincidence for you. Julia and I ran into her last night, when we were scoping out the Galileo Club. And this morning, she sent me a Signal message outing herself as my little pen pal, Moxie.”
Evan couldn’t remember a time when Dan was quiet for so long.
Finally, he got to his feet.
“Send me your report,” he said. “It sounds like you’ve got enough to derail Cawley’s nomination—at least long enough to give Julia the time she needs to figure out her plan for managing the fallout about her father.”
