Without Warning

by Joanne Fox Phillips

  I try to pry a little more out of him. How did they meet? How long has Westwind been involved with St. Benedict’s? But Marshall is less interested in that subject and more interested in talking about himself, and I soon realize that I’ve become trapped with one of the most boring individuals I have ever met in my lifetime. It appears that many of the attendees know this, as no one seems at all interested in joining our conversation. None of the usual strategies for gracefully extricating myself seem like viable options at this moment.

  Over by the bar, the archbishop appears to be manning some sort of conversion effort on Sandy. Although, from his body language, I’m not entirely sure his end game is Catholicism.

  I find myself retreating into my head as Marshall drones on. Truth is, charity events like this one were frequent occurrences back when I was married. Playing the corporate wife meant making small talk with the Marshalls of Winston’s company at least weekly and sometimes nightly. It was part of my job. Some nights were great fun, and others were torture. I decide to just offer it up, smile, and interject little phrases like “incredible!” and “really?” and “I’ve never thought of it that way, but you are so right.”

  Marshall fills me in on his new obsession: golf. He’s on the waiting list at a couple of high-end clubs, and he’s working diligently to bring down his thirtyish handicap through weekly lessons and daily practice after work and every weekend.

  “We should play sometime,” I tell him, and he immediately perks up.

  “You play golf?” he asks.

  “I do.” I tell him I belong to a club in Houston and love the game. I do not tell him that I have been club champion several times and currently sport a low single-digit handicap. As boring as he is, I don’t have the heart to make him feel inferior, particularly since I still feel guilty about calling in the fraud that implicated him. No telling what this will do to his career in the long term.

  Plus, he likes me. Not that I’m at all attracted to Marshall, but it has been such a long time since a man, any man, has seemed smitten. Yes, there have been a few dates since I returned to Houston, most of them set up by friends or with people I’ve known for years whose wives had died or split. What I’ve found in most cases is that the most attractive thing about me was that I was married to Winston. It’s the dating equivalent to having a Harvard MBA on a resume. Winston is a man’s man, and there is no shortage of men who wish they were just like him. If they can’t be him, then settling for his cast-off wife may be good enough. It’s refreshing and flattering to have someone flirt with me just for being myself. The irony that the person is Marshall is in keeping with my rocky road to redemption. I will be nice to Marshall. If he gets too forward, I can always play the auditor card. Gosh, Marshall, you’re so attractive, but auditors can’t get involved with people in the company, because we need to stay independent. I could get fired. Let’s just be friends.

  Marshall is explaining the pros and cons of an interlocking grip when salvation comes in the form of dinner chimes, indicating that we need to find our seats. Westwind’s table is near the front in appreciation of their substantial support, along with other well-known benefactors from the San Francisco area. The mayor is sitting at a table with the district attorney. At another table, there’s a US senator and a couple of other politicians and their wives. I make it a point to score a seat as far from Marshall as possible, which leaves me next to Doug and his wife, Michelle. While the patrons are all dressed to the nines, the décor and table settings are anything but ornate. Centerpieces are arrangements of herbs in six-inch pots, and the dinner entrée is essentially macaroni and cheese that’s been dressed up with a tiny dollop of lobster and finished with truffle oil. In true San Francisco style, the wine makes up for the pauper’s meal, having been donated by a Napa boutique vineyard—possibly the one hosting those notorious retreats. At each place is a handwritten note from either a current or former resident of St. Benedict’s thanking the attendee for their support. Mine is a handprint of a small child and a touching note from the mother. Thanks to my St. Benedict’s family, my boy and I are safe. Much love, Jess.

  The evening’s entertainment is a ten-minute film highlighting the program at St. Benedict’s and featuring testimonials from some of the more profound turnaround stories. There is a children’s choir singing “San Francisco, Here I Come,” but the highlight is a duet of “Ave Maria.” All of this hits me hard, and I fight back tears. It’s easy to become cynical about the Catholic Church, with all their scandals and backward views; however, moments like this, when the good work that they do is showcased along with the beautiful music, bring me back to the true meaning of Christianity.

  When it is time for the live auction, Archbishop Mauriello gets up and takes center stage. The professional auctioneer defers to him to hawk each item, and I can see why Honey called him egomaniacal. I look at the brochure. Sandwiched between the retreat in Italy and a private dinner for twelve at the French Laundry is a golf outing at the Olympic Club with the archbishop. There are five or six additional items that, back in the old days, would have caused my hand to raise.

  “I knew him when we were kids,” Doug says, gesturing to Mauriello. “He doesn’t remember me, though. We went to the same high school in Morristown—St. Andrew’s. I was on the freshman football team, and he was the senior quarterback. Larger-than-life kind of guy but a total asshole.” Michelle pokes Doug and glares. “No, I mean it, Tanzie,” he persists. “He beat the shit out of me one day after practice. Just for fun. He had no beef with me. He did it just because he could.” Doug refills his wine glass for the sixth time since I’ve been sitting with him. “I’d like to see him try it now!”

  Michelle bites her lip and kicks Doug under the table. I imagine the ride home will not be much fun.

  “Water under the bridge, Tanzie,” he concludes. “Marshall worships the guy, so maybe he turned out all right.”

  I find it amazing that both Doug and Marshall know Mauriello, though their opinions certainly couldn’t be more different. “Have you told Marshall about your experience with the archbishop in high school?” A street thug is one thing, but a sadistic predator is another.

  Doug shakes his head. “Water under the bridge, Tanzie,” he says, and he gives his attention to the auctioneer. There’s an irony, too, that two kids from Morristown both struck it rich in San Francisco. Maybe whatever satisfaction Doug has from climbing the corporate and economic ladder is eclipsed a bit by having his high school nemesis outdo him so publicly. No matter the reason, I decide that Honey may be right. Mauriello is certainly worth looking into.

  When the archbishop announces the golf outing, Marshall beams. Hacks like Marshall rarely play an elite course like the Olympic Club, which has hosted US Opens and boasts one of the most challenging courses in the country. I can tell he wants this badly from the way he purses his lips and shifts in his chair like a twelve-year-old. The bidding starts at $500, and a gentleman two tables over raises his paddle.

  “I have $500,” says the auctioneer. “Now $600, now $700. Do I hear $800?”

  The way these auctions go, most of the early bids are made by folks who just want to raise the paddle but aren’t serious enough to put up big bucks. Marshall is serious, though, and he joins in at $1,800.

  “$1,800 to you, sir.” The auctioneer points to Marshall, and Mauriello forces a smile. He seems less than thrilled about the idea of golf with Marshall. I sense that theirs is a one-sided friendship. Poor old Marshall, thinking that Mauriello is his buddy, when the reality is that the archbishop just has his hand out.

  “$1,900 to you,” says the auctioneer, pointing to a portly bald man in the back. The bidding goes on between Marshall and the bald man until Marshall stands up at $8,000.

  “Archbishop,” he says in a loud voice. “I’ll bid $25,000 if you’ll agree to play this Friday morning!”

  The crowd is silent. The auctioneer turns to Mauriello.

  “Of course, Marshall. For a $25,000 donation, I�
��ll adjust my Friday foursome,” says the archbishop, laughing.

  “Then $25,000 it is,” says the auctioneer. “Sir?”

  The bald man is caught off guard and doesn’t seem prepared to make that sort of leap. He shakes his head.

  Doug is beaming. “I play a little golf, Tanzie,” he says, leaning toward me. “Big hitter, too. I’d love to kick that guy’s skinny ass all over the golf course.”

  I find myself wondering which skinny ass he’s talking about: Marshall’s or Mauriello’s.

  I look over at a grinning Marshall, who appears to be in heaven. “Sandy? Tanzie? You girls want to be my guests on Friday?” Marshall asks.

  “I don’t play,” Sandy replies, “but Tanzie does.”

  Doug looks at me.

  “Is that all right?” I ask my boss sheepishly.

  “I think so. I’ll take one for the team and give you Friday off,” says Sandy, and then she covers her mouth and whispers in my ear. “See what you can find out.”

  “How about you, Doug?” asks Marshall.

  “Me?” Doug perks up and makes an exaggerated gesture, pointing to himself. “Absolutely, Marshall. Bring your wallet!”

  “You think you can beat him?” I whisper.

  At that, Doug frowns, as if transported back to a freshman kid crying under the bleachers. His expression then shifts to a sinister smile.

  “Water under the fucking bridge, Tanzie,” he says.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Wednesday Night, late

  When I get back to the suite, exhausted, my sister is there. She’s sitting at the dining table with a small mover’s box next to her, going through some documents. She smiles broadly when she sees me. I sigh.

  Frankly, I’m getting a bit perturbed that I have no privacy on this trip. I’ve been in a conference room with Sandy all day, and now here I am with Honey at night. Give me back a tiny little room that is all mine, I think, but I don’t remind Honey that I told her I didn’t want to see her until tomorrow night. I’m too tired to deal with the conversation that would follow.

  “Hi, Honey,” I say, forcing a smile. “Did you get the files?”

  “Yes. And, as I’ve been waiting all evening to show you—”

  With that, she lifts a small Dell laptop out of the box.

  “You took Mrs. McCrery’s computer?” I yelp.

  Talk about going the extra mile. I had instructed Honey to just go to Mrs. McCrery’s desk and take anything in her desk drawer, telling anyone who asked that she was helping out the HR department. But, as it turned out, everyone in the office was down at Fort Mason getting ready for the benefit, so Honey decided to take advantage of the empty office.

  “Look, Honey, this is useful, but you can’t do things like this,” I say. “Investigating fraud isn’t like the movies—you can’t just go around taking people’s laptops. What if someone pulls a surveillance tape and sees you going through Mrs. McCrery’s desk?”

  “They don’t have cameras at the archdiocese office,” she says.

  “My point is that you have no real evidence that money is even being stolen, and you’re taking risks—not to mention invading privacy. I don’t want you getting arrested.”

  “I’m perfectly capable of handling this,” she says with her usual authority.

  There’s no point in arguing with her further right now, so I sit down next to my sister and boot up the laptop. “You didn’t happen to find her password?”

  Honey looks dismayed.

  “Did you check under the keyboard?”

  She shakes her head.

  After a few unsuccessful attempts to guess it (“password123,” “McCrery,” “StBenedicts”), I give up.

  “I’m sorry, Honey,” I say, shaking my head. “We can’t get in without a password.”

  “Let me see what I can do,” she says.

  “Did you happen to teach Julian Assange?” I ask, but Honey doesn’t appreciate the humor. While she frowns at the laptop, I walk over to the bar and pour a late glass of Chardonnay. “Want one?”

  She thinks for a minute and then concedes.

  “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, Honey,” I say. “Really, you went above and beyond here. Maybe we can take another try at guessing the password tomorrow.”

  She takes a sip and smiles. “What did you think of the archbishop?” she asks, changing the subject. “I was right, wasn’t I?”

  “He’s something, all right.” I tell her about what Doug had said, and then I tell her about Mauriello flirting with Sandy.

  “I’m not surprised,” she says. “Over the years, I have silently watched that man ruin lives. When Mauriello got his appointment in 2009, everyone was excited. He was young and full of great ideas.”

  “Was St. Benedict’s one of his great ideas?” I ask.

  “Yes,” Honey nods, taking a sip of wine, “but I’ve seen his true colors. He’s obsessed with his own advancement, and he exploits everyone for that purpose. He also …” She hesitates, staring at her wine glass momentarily. “He habitually violates his vow of celibacy.” Her voice is low and reserved when she says this.

  I wait for her to elaborate, the Sandy encounter now conjuring up an impure thought or two. I shake my head and look at Honey.

  “When he first came, he asked our convent to help with some of the clerical tasks at his office at the archdiocese,” she continues. “He was very selective in who he asked. There was one young woman, Sister Catherine, from Ireland. Absolutely beautiful and very smart. I remember how excited she was to have been selected by the archbishop. Then, after six months, she left the convent. Refused to say why—just moved back to Ireland. We never heard from her again.

  “After that, Mauriello selected Sister Rosa Maria—another beautiful girl, this time from El Salvador. Six months later, the same thing happened: She left the order and moved back home. This same pattern went on for two more years. Finally, last year one of our young nuns, Sister Grace, came to me and told me what was going on. Archbishop Mauriello was manipulating these young women. He charmed them, seduced them, brought them up to those ‘retreats’ in Napa, took them sailing around the Bay on his yacht. And then, when he became tired of them, he discarded them. He told them that it was their fault for making him lust after them. He told them they had no business being a nun, Tanzie. These poor girls.” Honey shakes her head. “Mauriello is a snake.”

  I’m sick to my stomach. “And you want to know why I don’t go to church anymore?” I ask. “An archbishop seducing young nuns? I thought that stuff was all made up by ninth-grade boys. This really happens?”

  “It’s very rare,” Honey says. “That is, it was until Mauriello showed up.”

  “Isn’t there anyone you can tell about him? Where’s the cardinal in all of this?”

  Honey rolls her eyes. “Cardinals do not have authority over bishops, Tanzie. I did write a letter to the papal nuncio, but I never heard back.” Honey must be noticing the blank stare I’m giving her and elaborates. “The papal nuncio is sort of like the Pope’s ambassador.”

  “Probably somewhat of a relief that it involved adult women and not underage boys?” I say.

  Honey gives me a look to indicate that she doesn’t appreciate my remark. She takes some deep breaths to compose herself.

  “Mauriello’s an egomaniac,” she says finally. “I absolutely believe that he could steal from a charity and think nothing of it. He needs to be brought down.”

  I couldn’t agree more, but right now I’m exhausted.

  “I have to go to bed,” I tell her. “Why don’t you spend tomorrow going through all the paperwork you took from Tina’s desk? Look for more bank statements and account reconciliations. See if you can find some sort of listing of people and companies that were paid by the charity. Then we’ll meet tomorrow night and sort it out, okay?”

  “Will do,” she says. “Oh, and before I forget—we’re going to Blondie’s for dinner tomorrow night. Nothing fancy, but Lucy thinks she can make
it. We can head over there around six.”

  “Great,” I say, thinking about falling asleep. “I’ll be so excited to see everyone. Now—good night.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Thursday Morning

  When we arrive at the office, Sandy again realizes she has left her guest badge in her other purse and has to have Connie issue another. For an otherwise organized person, her inability to keep track of her badge seems a bit out of character. I decide not to point out that this is yet another complication of overpacking for trips.

  Once in the conference room, I find a present waiting for me. Is it from Marshall? I untie the blue satin bow from around the small box and loosen the transparent tape holding down the side flap. Inside is a coffee mug with a red dragon, the word Wales running in gold script along the bottom. I smile. Ted. How nice. Aww. I make my way to the coffee bar, return the chipped loaner to the lower cabinet, and start a pot for my mug’s maiden voyage.

  While I wait for the coffee to brew, I decide to hunt down Ted and deliver a personal thank you. His office is on the west side of the floor, just past a small, uninhabited cube farm. I knock on the doorframe, and Ted looks up, a bit surprised but smiling.

  “Thanks, Ted! This is really sweet of you.” I hold up the mug. “What did you say the other day?”

  “Iechyd da!” Ted raises his empty mug in a toast, and then he gets up to follow me back to the coffee bar.

  “So, what kind of consulting engagement are you involved in?” I ask as Ted fills his cup with hot water.

  “I work for a European consulting firm that specializes in wind turbine design,” he says. “We’ve been engaged by Zurich, Westwind’s insurance carrier.” He reaches in his breast pocket and hands me a business card. “Westwind has encountered some malfunctions at their Mojave facility. Throwing blades, mostly.”