Without Warning

by Joanne Fox Phillips

  “Throwing blades?” I ask as I pour my coffee.

  “Sometimes wind turbines get caught in high winds and rotate faster than their intended design,” he explains. “It can send blades sailing through the air.”

  “I’ve never heard about this.”

  “It is rare,” says Ted, “but it does happen.”

  We make our way back to Ted’s office. I sit down in the guest chair across from him, blowing on my coffee. Ted removes his metal-framed glasses and slowly cleans them as he continues the lesson on blade throwing. “Such malfunctions have particularly happened in Europe. Sometimes they can be attributed to poor design or substandard materials. It’s my job to investigate just what the cause is. I was out at the site last week, and I’m talking with the lead engineers here this week.”

  “Why isn’t the manufacturer liable?” I ask, taking a sip of coffee.

  “Often they are, but it depends upon the contract. Warranty periods vary.”

  “But if the parts are defective—”

  “It’s not always black-and-white, you see. The technology is always changing.”

  “Do we know if any of Westwind’s parts are defective?”

  “So far, we can’t tell. It’s a mystery.” He puts his glasses back on and peers at me. “Now, Tanzie—did you tell me the other day that you’re an auditor?”

  “Yes. I’m out here from the CoGenCo office in Houston.” I check to make sure no one’s listening. “We had a helpline call,” I whisper.

  “About what?”

  “I can’t really tell you, but these kinds of calls usually turn out to be nothing. We just have to make sure, which means we’re looking at contracts and invoices, things like that. It’s all pretty tedious. Honestly, if I have to look at one more of those stupid Wind Fabricators invoices, I may jump off the Golden Gate Bridge.”

  A look of concern crosses over Ted’s face. “Sorry?”

  “I’m kidding, Ted.”

  He gives a nervous laugh, but I can tell he doesn’t appreciate the joke. Like auditors, engineers are not known for their sense of humor; they tend to take everything so literally. Ted from Wales is one dry guy. I glance at his ringless left hand, however, and wonder why I’m being so critical. So what if he doesn’t have a sense of humor? I try to think about what the coffee mug might mean: Was he flirting or just being nice? There’s a part of me that hopes for the latter, a part of me that’s so terrified of dating again—of being dumped again—that I find fault in even the most remote of dating candidates. Maybe I should become a nun, like Honey. But then, there’s the whole God thing. That might be a deal breaker.

  “Thanks again for the mug, Ted,” I say, getting up to go back to the conference room. “It was so thoughtful of you.”

  Ted smiles, but the concern over my Golden Gate Bridge joke remains visible.

  “Really,” I repeat. “I’m fine.”

  When I return to the conference room, Sandy has a contract from Wind Fabricators and some invoices spread out on the table.

  “I don’t see anything here,” she says in frustration. “I don’t see anything in any of it, and this is the last of the invoices. Why would we get a tip without more obvious hard evidence than this? We should have found something by now if that tip was any good.”

  “Maybe the caller was Marshall’s ex-wife,” I say. “Who knows?”

  “It just pisses me off that we can’t get anything on him. I can tell he’s dirty,” she says again. “Dirtier than an East Texas outhouse.”

  “Do you want me to pull some more contracts?” I ask.

  Sandy shrugs and shakes her head. “We’ve spent enough time on this,” she decides. “I’ll call Mark, let him know we haven’t found anything, and see what he wants us to do.”

  I get busy putting all the invoices back into the binders and tidying up the conference room, while Sandy calls Mark and tells him that the helpline tip was a dry hole. Nothing there.

  “Tanzie’s got herself a golf date with Marshall on Friday at some big-deal course out here. She’s fixin’ on staying the weekend,” Sandy adds, giving me a smile. “Don’t worry, Mark, she won’t run the airline change fee through her expense account. I’m heading back tomorrow on the red-eye. Give me some time to take in the sights today.” She listens for a while and then says, “Okay, if you’re sure—then we’ll see you in the office Monday morning.” She hangs up the phone and gives me a shrug. “I guess we have some time to ourselves.”

  “Good,” I say.

  I send a text to Honey, telling her that I’m available to help her if she needs me to, and then I unplug my phone and put the charger in my purse.

  “Hey, Tanzie, did I tell you Archbishop Mauriello wants to have dinner with me tonight?” Sandy mentions as she gathers a stack of papers, taps them on the tabletop, and puts them in her briefcase. I wonder if I should tell Sandy what I know about Mauriello. This is awkward.

  “Is he trying to convert you?” I ask instead as a warm up.

  “Is that what you call it?” Sandy chuckles. “I think he’s interested in me. Do you think that’s kinda weird?”

  “I’m not sure it’s weird, Sandy. I’ll bet most men on earth are interested in you.”

  “But he’s like a priest, right? Are archbishops priests? I thought they can’t, you know, have sex.”

  “They’re not supposed to, but I’ve found out recently that some, in fact, are quite active in that respect.” I give her a look.

  She giggles. “He’s really charming and handsome. Heck, I’m not Catholic; I won’t go to Hell, right?”

  “You’ll have to get clarification from Mauriello on that,” I say. “I’m stale on church policy. So, what about Dan?”

  “Dan can kiss my sweet ass,” Sandy says. “He says I snore. Besides, it’s not like we’re married or anything. So, tell me: How’s your deal with that priest and your sister going?”

  Just as she says this, my phone buzzes with a text. I look down.

  AT THE HOTEL. BIG NEWS!!!! COME IMMEDIATELY!

  I sigh, shake my head, and show the text to Sandy. “There’s your answer.” I chuckle. “I’ve been summoned. Honestly, I don’t think there’s much to it—she’s such a drama queen.”

  Sandy nods.

  “Don’t mention anything to Mauriello, okay?” I add. “I’m not sure if he can make trouble for my sister, and I wouldn’t want that to happen.”

  “Don’t worry, Tanzie,” Sandy says, grinning. “I don’t think that handsome cowboy and I will be doing much talking about your sister.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “By the way, Sandy—Honey says Mauriello’s something of an operator.”

  “Well, so am I.” She laughs, and she gets up.

  “Really, Sandy,” I say. “Be careful. I’ve heard some scary things about the guy. He sounds a little creepy.”

  She gives me a reproachful look. “Honestly, Tanzie, you’re not my mother.”

  Perhaps someday there will be books or seminars devoted to how best to warn your boss about the dangers of a stranger hookup. For now, all I can do is apologize.

  “Okay. Okay. You’re right, Sandy,” I say finally. “Have fun.”

  “I’ll give you all the details on Monday at work.”

  With that, we tidy up the conference room, and then we head up to forty to say goodbye to Marshall and Doug, drop off our badges, and schedule our closing phone meeting for next week to go over what we found—or in this case, didn’t find.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Thursday Afternoon

  I think about stopping by Peet’s for a latte on the way to the hotel but decide not to. Even if Gerard and Boomer were enjoying coffee together, I wouldn’t have time to spy on them, with Honey waiting for me at the suite. Still, I can’t help myself; curiosity is something of a character flaw with me, so I poke my head through the door and look around, relieved in a way that I’m not conflicted by priorities. As expected, there’s no one.

  Honey is at the dining table with s
tacks of papers in front of her when I enter the suite. She jumps up from the table when she sees me and raises her fists in the air with uncharacteristic jubilance.

  “I got the password!” she shouts.

  “How?” I say incredulously.

  “It was right in here.” Honey hands me the small pink spiral notebook. “See? On the back page it says usernames and passwords. I found it in one of drawers when I was over at the offices.”

  “Honey, you amaze me,” I tell her, scooting the laptop in front of me. “Let me drive. The first thing we need to do is see whether they’ve cut off her access to the archdiocese server.”

  “What?” Honey asks.

  “The archdiocese’s restricted files,” I tell her. “That’s probably where most of the accounting records are. When someone leaves or dies—and I don’t mean to be insensitive about this, Honey—someone needs to notify IT to remove access. I’m guessing that people were just upset and forgot.”

  Honey leans over so she can watch as I look at the folder listing. “Bingo,” I say. “Her access hasn’t been removed yet.” I scoot the laptop back over to Honey. “Now you can get into the St. Benedict’s accounting folder. Fish around—but be sure to transfer all the information in those restricted files to Tina’s hard drive. No telling when they’ll remove the access.”

  “It’s a lot of files, Tanzie. Some of them appear to be quite large.”

  She’s right. If we take the time to go through each one to see what we need, it could take too long, and access could be removed. But Tina’s laptop is old, and there’s not enough memory to just move everything over. “How about I run out and buy a thumb drive?” I ask.

  “Thank you.” She seems delighted at my cooperation. “In the meantime, I’ll get through as many of these folders as I can.”

  I head toward the door to the suite.

  “I’m going to get something to bring back for lunch while I’m out. Do you want anything?”

  She doesn’t, which is why she’s a size four and I’m not.

  The lunch break is a brief one, and I’m back at the suite in less than twenty minutes with both a jump drive and a chef salad.

  “Sure you don’t want some?” I ask. She is consumed with looking at Mrs. McCrery’s files and doesn’t answer, so I sit across from her at the dining table, eating my salad and watching my sister work. She’s in the zone, completely focused on the data. I can’t help but see similarities with how I dive headfirst into things. We are definitely more alike than I’d realized, I think to myself.

  In two hours, Honey has completed the file transfer and made it through most of the folders Tina had access to. She’s ticking items off the documents list Spiro gave her, when her cell phone rings.

  “Oh no,” she says, handing the phone over to me. “Dinner’s off.”

  I haven’t seen Vreseis Cosmo since my mother’s funeral fifteen years ago, but from what I remember, Spiro’s mother wasn’t aging very well. She was only around seventy at the time, but she had started to decline into a frail state even then. My mother, Helen, and Vreseis were best friends, and she was devastated when my mother passed. Now, following Spiro’s transfer, she’s devastated again. My sister Blondie has already spent the better part of the day over at the Cosmo house, and she called Honey to cancel dinner due to exhaustion. So, putting aside our investigation, Honey and I go to give her some relief.

  The door isn’t locked, and Honey ushers me into a living room that hasn’t changed much since the Nixon administration. The brown shag carpet has worn traffic patterns, and the heavy drapes are drawn, giving the place a dark and depressing feel. There’s a noticeable old-person smell, and I fight the urge to pull back the drapes and open a window.

  Vreseis sits on the couch in a faded green zip-front velour robe, a blank stare on her face. My sister Blondie has her arm around Mrs. Cosmo. The two take up very little room on the couch. In her teens, Blondie struggled with her weight, and my mother referred to her as our “chubby” girl. It was meant as an endearment, but Blondie hated it. Sometime during college, she took up swimming and rowing and never again tipped the scale above the 110 mark. The lines on her tanned face are appropriate given her age, but there is no sagging. She inherited the ageless Mediterranean skin of the Greek side of the family. The blonde hair that once defined her is completely white and cropped short for convenience. Her broad smile is genuine and warm.

  “Look, Mrs. Cosmo,” Blondie says, guiding Vreseis to look up at me. “It’s Tanzie.”

  Mrs. Cosmo’s decline has only gotten worse since I saw her last. She has become tiny, and her face reminds me of one of the apple dolls Lucy and I used to sell at craft fairs.

  “Hi, Mrs. Cosmo,” I say. “It’s so nice to see you again.” I crouch down in front of the sofa to be at eye level.

  Mrs. Cosmo brightens immediately when she looks at me, and I’m a little taken aback by the response. I never thought I was her favorite O’Leary.

  “Helen!” she shouts, and she begins to shake with joy and clap her hands. She puts both hands on my face and pulls me close for a kiss. “Helen,” she says to Blondie, who is as confused as I am. “You’ve come to see me after so long.”

  She has Blondie scoot over to make room for me on the couch, and she begins speaking in her native tongue. I never learned Greek beyond the phrases a child of immigrants picks up, so I look to Honey and Blondie for some help.

  “She thinks you’re Mama,” says Honey.

  “I got that,” I say, “but what is she saying?”

  Honey looks sad. “She’s telling you that her Spiro has been sent away, and she’s going to see you in Heaven soon.”

  I’m surprised that Mrs. Cosmo is confusing me with my mother. While I inherited the olive skin and brown eyes of the Greek side of the family, I never thought I was nearly as pretty as she. I look at my sisters, wondering how to respond. Blondie shrugs, and Honey just shakes her head.

  “Veevee,” I finally say, remembering the nickname my mother used. “God is not ready for you right now.” I pat her hand. “I need you to stay right here in San Francisco. Do you understand?”

  Mrs. Cosmo shakes her head. “I have no one here anymore, Helen,” she says.

  I look to my sisters but again get no help.

  “Let me see if I can work a miracle, Veevee,” I say, remembering a good old Catholic standby. “Let me see if I can get Spiro back to San Francisco. Can you give me some time to work on that?”

  Mrs. Cosmo nods. “Entáxei,” she whispers. Soon, the excitement of a visit from beyond takes its toll, and she begins to close her eyes and fall asleep.

  Blondie and I carefully get up from the couch so as not to wake her, and we convene with Honey in the kitchen. The red marbleized Formica table that I remember from my childhood is still in the bay window that looks out over an overgrown garden. There’s a rip in the vinyl seat that has been repaired with duct tape, but otherwise not much has changed. Blondie grabs some glasses from the cupboard and fills them with tap water. They’re the colorful aluminum tumblers popular in the fifties, now scratched and faded.

  “What do we do now?” I ask. “Can we bring Spiro back? Can anyone reason with Mauriello?”

  Honey rolls her eyes, and Blondie covers her face with her hands. The feeling conveyed is a combination of frustration, fear, and exhaustion. Honey puts her hand on Blondie’s back, giving it a reassuring rub as I watch from across the table. At one time, Blondie, Lucy, and I were inseparable—the triad, as my brother Charlie used to refer to us. Now I am the outsider.

  “Can we move Mrs. Cosmo to Fresno?” I offer.

  “I don’t think she can make the move,” Blondie answers. “Look at her—she’s so frail. I’ve been helping Spiro over the past few years, coming by most days. Between the two of us, we’ve been able to keep her in this house. I don’t think Spiro would have that level of support in Fresno.”

  “What about a home?” I ask. That remark is met with horrified looks by both sisters,
so I back off.

  “There must be a way,” I say. “What about this—I’m playing golf with the archbishop tomorrow. Maybe he’s a betting man.”

  Honey looks uneasy. “If you win, Spiro gets to come home? So, what does he get if you lose?”

  I hadn’t thought of that. Besides, it may not be a good idea to let Mauriello know that I know Spiro or that Honey’s my sister. What if he transfers her to Nome, Alaska?

  “Let’s just buy some time,” Honey says finally, taking command of the situation. “If I can get the goods on Archbishop Mauriello, we can get him replaced. Maybe Spiro can then be transferred back here.”

  Whether Mauriello is a thief or not doesn’t matter to me anymore. What kind of person takes away a mother’s only son on a whim? If Honey is right, and Mauriello had Spiro transferred because he knew too much, then maybe I need to spend more time helping Honey on this. The CoGenCo audit is over, and I have an entire weekend at my disposal.

  “I’m in,” I say to Honey. “I know I’ve been on the fence before, but now I’m in.” A long-overdue smile crosses my face. “Now all I need are some golf shoes.”

  “I can take care of that,” Honey assures me. And with that, the three of us clink our tumblers in a toast of sisterly solidarity.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Friday Morning

  As agreed, I take a cab over to the St. Vincent de Paul thrift shop on Mission. I arrive just past eight, and the store doesn’t officially open until ten. Sister Ignatius is waiting in a vintage 1990s tan Dodge Dart. She is wearing a light-blue sack dress with a tired navy cardigan sweater, and her wispy gray bangs have been angled over to the side and tucked under her veil. It’s hard to believe that Honey and Sister Ignatius are contemporaries. They are at opposite ends of the fashion spectrum.

  Sister Ignatius unlocks the back door of the thrift shop. There are black plastic garbage bags full of unprocessed donations lining the back room, and a work table piled high with stacks of folded shirts and sweaters awaiting room on the front-of-store racks. A rolling rack of high-end designer attire lines a wall, and I thumb through it while I wait. Not bad, I think, pulling out a beige silk Marc Jacobs blouse and black wool Akris jacket.