“Or both,” I say. “Do you want me to have IT pull the emails?” It’s fairly standard to pull the emails when someone is accused of bribery.
Mark purses his lips and strokes his moustache while he thinks. “Let’s hold off on that just yet, Tanzie,” he says. “I don’t think Legal would want us digging around in an executive’s emails just based on a single phone call. Why don’t you see if there’s any sort of corroborating evidence in the contracts or invoices first.”
“Okay,” I say. “Will do.”
I have a couple of pet peeves about traveling on business. Both of them involve traveling with coworkers. The first is this: I never ever check luggage, even for extended trips. Being able to pack strategically is a lost art for most of my travel mates. So, when I see Sandy sitting at the gate with only her purse and an expensive-looking tote the size of a grocery bag, I suppress a grimace and smile as I sit down beside her.
“Is that all you’re taking?” She looks at my carry-on in disbelief. “Dang, Tanzie! How do you get all your makeup and stuff within the allowance?”
I shrug and smile, electing not to point out that less can be more in the realm of cosmetics.
“Oh hey, before I forget,” Sandy says, “I moved my seat so that we’re sitting together now.”
“Wonderful,” I lie. My other pet peeve is having to sit next to coworkers on flights. It’s a privacy thing. Does your boss expect you to be working? Is it okay to have a drink? Or to nap? Or is making small talk for hours the price for not working? A professional image can be undermined if a coworker knows what you read, what movie you select, or what you drink. It’s just too close for my taste. Further complicating the issue is the fact that when auditors show up at a field office, they are generally stationed in a conference room. After a week of sharing close quarters, even the closest friendships can be strained. Still, a first-class seat next to Sandy is infinitely better than squeezing between two jumbos in the rear. I take the situation as a positive sign that I am doing the right thing.
Sandy and I file onto the plane. I’m in the window seat, and I scoot in, after putting my bag in the overhead compartment. Sandy positions herself in the aisle seat and crams her Louis Vuitton under the seat in front of her.
“Can I bring you something before we take off?” asks the flight attendant.
“Scotch, on the rocks,” Sandy says, and then she looks at me. While I am tempted to order a cocktail, I elect for sparkling water instead. Old age means a metabolism slower than a pack of snails; as my sister Bumby used to say, “you’re one Tic Tac away from the muumuu aisle at Walmart.”
“I’m saving my points for wine later,” I say.
“Not me,” says Sandy. “When I travel, I don’t count points, calories, or carbs. And when I’m in first class, I drink!”
“Good for you, Sandy,” I tell her. “Enjoy your youth. I will warn you, though: When you pass fifty, it’s an uphill battle. Nothing but salads and lean proteins. One unintended carb, and back bacon erupts like a zit on a teenager’s chin.”
“You’re over fifty, Tanzie? You sure don’t look it.”
“Fifty-five, and God bless you, Sandy. I knew there was a reason I liked working for you.”
“All that clean living is paying off. Maybe I should take nutrition advice from you after all. Cut back on the processed food with all those chemicals.”
I just smile. The truth is, there are plenty of chemicals in the form of Juvederm and Botox floating around my system, but I’ll let Sandy think it’s the kale.
We toast with our plastic pre-departure beverages. Sandy slugs back her scotch. “I love first class,” she squeals. “I’ve only flown it a few times—Mark’s so dang cheap. How about you?”
I could launch into my rags-to-riches-then-back-to-rags story. I could tell her that first class is a distant cousin from the private planes I used to take with my ex-husband, Winston. Instead, I shift the conversation. “It is nice, isn’t it? Sandy, where did you grow up?”
“East Texas. Little town outside of Huntsville. Dirt poor too. Lived with my memaw cause my mama was a mess. Never met my daddy.”
I’ve been in the South long enough to know that a memaw is a grandmother or sometimes a great-grandmother. I don’t know which it is in Sandy’s case, but I elect not to probe for greater details in what must be a painful episode. What a wuss I am, complaining about my marriage breaking up.
“And yet, you graduated from Southern Methodist University?” I ask. “How did that happen?”
“Went there on a basketball scholarship,” she says, crunching an ice chip.
I should know better than to stereotype, but I had Sandy pegged for a Tri Delt, not a jock. The thought of her running up court with those store-bought boobies seems incredible.
“I find it hard to imagine you on a basketball court,” I say, smiling. “You’re such a fashion diva.”
“I should show you a picture some time.” She laughs. “You wouldn’t recognize me.”
The attendant interrupts us with a hot towel delivered by tongs. Sandy and I look at each other and smile at the personal attention.
“Sophomore year, I got breast cancer and couldn’t play,” she continues. “I was a pretty good student, so I got an academic scholarship and studied accounting. That was a long time ago, and I’m cancer-free now. Still have to get the girls checked every year, though.”
Sandy continues her story through the dinner service, and I’m fascinated. She overcame a painful-sounding childhood in rural Texas by focusing on her athleticism, and she then battled cancer and got her CPA. She tells me she is committed to doing everything with excellence. She even makes her own clothes; she can copy any designer fashion, she says, even without a pattern. She cannot, however, make her own shoes and spends a significant percentage of her income in Houston’s elite shoe salons. Sandy, it turns out, is an interesting gal.
Three scotches and dinner wine finally take effect, and Sandy asks the attendant for a blanket. As she curls up under it, I wonder briefly if she’ll ever figure out that this whole helpline call is a sham. If she does, I’m toast. She may be too. Audit departments require the highest degree of ethics, and guilt by association could derail her career.
But what’s done is done, I tell myself, and I divert my thoughts to the task at hand. There are still two and a half hours of flying time left, so I pull out my laptop and begin to review the audit program for Westwind. A few minutes later, I’m startled by what sounds like a Formula One engine firing up. Apparently, without her even knowing, my boss has achieved excellence in snoring.
I lean forward, making eye contact with the fellow across the aisle, who is as surprised as I am. She’s my boss, I mouth, and I shrug, fishing out earbuds from my purse and thinking about poor Dan.
CHAPTER FIVE
Monday Night
It’s after ten o’clock, Houston time, when Sandy and I arrive at the Hyatt. The crisp San Francisco air is a welcome change from the thick humidity of Texas, which even in early fall can be stifling.
I take out a small mirror from my bag and reapply my lip gloss. Sandy’s right, I think; I do look pretty good for fifty-five. I’ve always been self-conscious about my looks. I have six older sisters, and every one of them is better looking than I am. Even Bumby, the perennial hippy chick with her unshaven armpits and salt-and-pepper hair that she keeps in a long braid, has sufficient natural beauty to tip the scale in her favor. The prevailing rumor during my childhood was that I was adopted. “A seventh girl? Panagia mou,” my mother would say when I demanded clarity on the issue. I work hard at keeping myself up, something that becomes more difficult every year. I cringe internally for being so vain. In my heart, I know it shouldn’t matter. But it does.
“Would you like me to get a bellhop for you and your daughter?” asks the taxi driver. There is nothing like the objective view of a total stranger to put one in their place.
“She’s not—” Sandy interjects, but I interrupt her.
>
“It’s okay.” This is surely a sign that my moment of vanity has caught the attention of some divine entity. There is no need to make this guy feel embarrassed. “Yes, please get us a bellhop.”
The bellhop loads our bags onto the brass cart, and we follow him through the electric doors, up the elevator to the fourth floor, and into the lobby. I remember coming here in the early seventies, just after it was built. The hotel was a spectacle at the time: the lobby ceiling reaching all the way up to the top floor, with ivy growing down the interior balconies. It is certainly less spectacular now that the design, once so innovative, has been copied by so many three-star chains. Still, the place has been modernized by eliminating the greenery and adding hip restaurant pods. The six-story orb sculpture known as the Eclipse remains the focal point, a nod to San Francisco’s appreciation for timeless art. It provides an air of sophistication that separates this atrium lobby from its lesser relations.
My moment of reminiscing is interrupted by a sharp elbow to my rib cage. “Dang, Tanzie, look,” Sandy mutters. “There’s a God-dang nun and priest having martinis over there.”
I give a quick glance over to the bar. To my horror, there sits my sister the nun with Spiro. Honey sticks out like—well, like a nun at a bar. Not that she seems to mind. Honey is well over six feet tall, and she carries herself with a kind of serene obviousness that I’ve never quite mastered. Not better than you, but not concerned with your opinion, either; Honey just is. I’m pretty sure it has something to do with being naturally skinny—or being skinny probably helps, at least. Maybe if I could eat anything I want and stay rail thin, I’d believe more devoutly in the grace of God.
Honey is in her full habit, with wimple and veil, and a large string of rosary beads hangs from her belt. I know for a fact that she wears street clothes fairly often, but I think she likes the shock effect, which is substantial when combined with a priest and a couple of martini glasses. She’s already noticed me and is watching me without saying anything.
Before I left Texas, I called Lucy to tell her I would be staying at the Hyatt, but I never for a single minute thought that it would result in a stakeout.
“It’s my sister,” I tell Sandy.
“Your real sister?”
“Yep. My real sister. And the priest is my other sister’s prom date.”
Sandy looks confused.
“Would you like to join them?”
“Hell yeah.” Sandy grins, and she gestures for the bellhop to hold our items. We walk past egg chairs and tall leather wing-backs to a group of club chairs in the lobby bar, where I exchange perfunctory hugs with my sister.
“This is unexpected,” I say. “You look great.” That’s the nicest thing you can say to a sister you haven’t seen in years, or to anyone, really. And it wasn’t a lie: She is pushing seventy, but to look at her, she is somewhere between forty-five and ageless.
Honey just smiles. She clearly hears the compliment often enough that she already knows.
“I’d heard you had work done,” she replies, looking me over approvingly. “It’s very good.”
Not, you’ll notice, the same compliment. It’s the kind of slap that’s so quiet, you can do it in front of an audience, and still only the two of you hear it. I stare at Spiro, and Sandy stares at me. If after two seconds my nips and tucks have been revealed to my boss, how long will it take for these two to blurt out that I knew I was coming to San Francisco earlier than this morning?
I introduce Sandy. Spiro gets up and drags one chair from a nearby table over for her and then another for me.
“Sandy, are you here to help me and Tanzie?”
I shoot Spiro a look that I hope translates to No! Not now! But I don’t think Spiro is as quick on the uptake as you’d hope for in a conspirator, so I try something else.
“Sandy is my boss,” I say. “We just got in for an audit of Westwind. Can you believe it? What a surprise, right, Spiro?”
Honey gives me a calm but interested look, but she doesn’t say anything. Spiro shuts up. Good enough.
“I told these guys I was coming out here this afternoon,” I explain to Sandy. “Spiro said that as long as I was here, he wanted me to help him look into a situation with a homeless shelter he volunteers with. Maybe I can squeeze that in after hours?”
“That might be tough,” warns Sandy. Out-of-town audits tend to mean significant overtime, even if they’re in great places. It’s the paradox most auditors face. The perk? You get sent around the globe. Anywhere you can imagine: London, New York, Madrid. The joke? No matter where you go, you spend your time in the exact same conference room. I don’t know how they get it there every time; maybe it hitches to the plane. The best you can hope for is that they install it somewhere with a nice view.
“Well, anything you can do will be appreciated,” Spiro says, nodding. “Just since Saturday morning, I’ve been able to find—”
“Let’s get a drink!” I say, cutting him off in desperation. I stand up and flag down a nearby waitress. “Scotch? Sandy?”
“Um, sure.” She shrugs.
“Scotch, on the rocks, and I’ll have a cucumber martini,” I tell the waiter. “Anyone else?”
“Oh no. Three’s my limit,” Spiro says, and I wonder how long these two have been sitting here, waiting for me to arrive.
“None for me.” Honey laughs. “Get it? None for me, and I’m a nun!”
Honey and Spiro roar with laughter, while Sandy purses her lips. Clearly, my boss is uncomfortable with being surrounded by tipsy clergy. “And a large club soda,” Honey says to the waitress after the laughter subsides. I wonder if she detects my nervousness at trying to control the situation. A stress-induced hot flash begins creeping up my neck, as I keep worrying about whether Spiro and Honey will accidentally disclose that I was just out here two days ago. Sandy may be a hick, but she’s very smart and naturally inquisitive. As with any auditor worth her salt, it wouldn’t take her long to piece together enough little bits of information to figure out that the helpline call was a sham.
I look over at my sister. I can’t imagine Honey having a hot flash; for Honey, going through the change was no doubt immediate, seamless, and pain-free. Her uterus probably dissolved one day like a Communion wafer when she wasn’t thinking about it. Just another blessing from the Lord to his special favorite.
Still, I need to do something about Sandy. As our waitress leans over to pick up an empty glass, I give her leg a subtle bump, which causes her to lose her balance and spill her entire tray on Sandy. The waitress apologizes profusely and offers napkins as the bar manager dashes over to offer help. Sandy is soaked.
“Maybe I should just get to my room and clean up. I’ll send you a text about tomorrow, Tanzie.”
Sandy leaves with the bar manager, who presumably will help her get cleaned up and expedite her check-in process. I’d probably feel worse about orchestrating the spill if I didn’t know how thoroughly Sandy packed for this trip. She’s probably relieved for the opportunity to show off outfit number three of thirty. That’s how I decide to frame it, anyway. The last thing I need is more guilt.
“That’s quite a boss you have there,” Honey starts. “Can’t be more than thirty years old.”
“Very pretty young lady,” adds Spiro, nodding in agreement.
“Yes, she is. And also very smart,” I add. “Now, I have a favor to ask. I can help you, Spiro, but please don’t mention that I was out here over the weekend. Okay? Sandy expects me to work exclusively at my real job. She and I are out here on company business that just came up. Purely coincidental.”
Honey raises an eyebrow.
“Of course, Tanzie,” Spiro says.
“Great,” I say. “Let’s plan to get together tomorrow after work to look over what information you have and figure out a game plan.”
“Can I help?” Honey asks, leaning toward me. “Really, I would love to. It sounds exciting.”
Exciting. Ah yes, the excitement of a charity audit.
Only a nun on her third martini might think so. Culling through bank statements and journal entries packs about the same excitement as standing in line at the post office, only it takes longer. Still, I have no idea of what convent life is like, so perhaps this opportunity is a rung up on the thrill ladder. Not quite skydiving, more Veterans Day parade.
But I’m conflicted about involving her. On the one hand, I could use some help, particularly now that my boss has come out to California with me. But on the other hand, I’m just not sure how well Honey and I would work together. She’s Mother Superior of the San Francisco Sisters of Mercy, which is as much of a big shot as a nun can be. She’s used to running the show, and she pouts if she doesn’t get her way. I’ve often thought it odd that my prima donna sister made it so far up the hierarchy of the Sisters of Mercy. I would have thought that all organizations have similar criteria for advancement: Wouldn’t C-suite nuns need to be calm-under-pressure, smooth-talking team players? Perhaps Honey has a professional image that’s far different from the one she exposes to family, a game face she projects from her wimple. I’m not as close to her as I am to my other sisters, so I don’t know. Either way, it all depends upon which persona surfaces: the boss or the drama queen. If the wrong one shows up, it could be a complete disaster.
“What do you think, Spiro?” I ask.
“That would be super,” he says, and he looks at his watch. “I have to get going. I’ll leave you girls to catch up.” He gets up to give me a goodbye hug. “Thanks for making the trip, Tanzie. Really super.”
Spiro leaves, just as our waitress delivers my martini and a club soda for Honey.
“Where’s everyone else?” I ask.
“Let’s see,” says Honey, trying to remember the whereabouts of my other sisters. “Bumby’s in New York visiting Lulu, Blondie’s taking Spiro’s mom to Bingo, and Lucy—well, who knows with her. I think she’s up in Sacramento protesting something or other. Maybe she can get down here sometime this week.”
Let’s hope so, I think, even though I already know I can’t count on the sister I’m closest to this time.
Without Warning Page 4
