Without Warning

by Joanne Fox Phillips

  I decide that it’s probably a better choice not to dig any further into this one. I’m comfortable keeping anything that I might know about the murder a secret.

  Bill Matheson, my attorney, takes a magnifying glass out of his top drawer and examines the five rubies that I’ve set on a white handkerchief on his desk.

  “I thought you were out of the larceny business, Tanzie,” he says.

  “I didn’t steal them,” I tell him. “They came to me anonymously in the mail. Can you fence them for me?”

  “Well, damn. I only get bills and junk mail in mine.” Bill chuckles. “And you have no actual knowledge as to who sent these to you?”

  “I have some suspicion,” I say, “but no actual knowledge.”

  “Are they stolen?” Bill asks, putting down the magnifying glass and looking me in the eye.

  “They might be,” I say, “but the person who I think they might have belonged to is dead. I don’t even know for a fact that they belonged to him.”

  Bill raises an eyebrow. “Well, you know what they say, Tanzie-girl? Possession is—”

  “Nine-tenths of the law,” I finish.

  “They look high quality. I can probably get these sold for you,” Bill says. “I’ll take my standard one-third.”

  “Fabulous,” I say. “Thanks, Bill.”

  We get up, and he escorts me outside to my car. I elect not to tell him that I don’t want to take a chance that somehow these rubies can be traced to Mauriello and get me involved in a murder case. If they can be traced, I can stand behind attorney–client privilege. I think of the thirty percent as my insurance policy.

  In early December, Bill asks me to meet him at his office. When I get there, he hands me an envelope containing a receipt from a jewelry store in New Orleans for the sale of the rubies, along with a cashier’s check in the amount of $9,075.

  “Those were some nice rubies,” is all Bill says.

  On the way home from the bank after cashing the check, I debate what to do with my windfall. I didn’t steal the rubies or kill Mauriello, yet it just doesn’t seem right to keep the money. I could send it to Honey or St. Benedict’s, but that too would raise all kinds of questions I don’t feel comfortable dealing with at the moment.

  After some internal deliberation, I turn my car around and drive north on I-45 to the Sisters of Charity convent. I leave the car running while I dash to the front door and ring the bell. When the door opens, I hand the nun the large packet of cash.

  “This is for all the sisters,” I tell her as I run back to my car.

  I have been redeemed, I tell myself as I pull onto the highway again. I have done what’s right—or at least my version of it. And while I don’t think I’ll be attending Sunday Mass anytime soon, I am pleased with my transformation from saboteur and thief to a person with a clear conscience.

  Near Christmas, a letter arrives among the cards and catalogs in my mail slot. The postmark is from overseas. After situating myself on my patio with a cigarette and glass of wine, I open it and unfold the note inside.

  Dear Tanzie,

  I must apologize for leaving as I did without a proper goodbye. Please forgive my ungentlemanly behavior whilst I was in San Francisco. A smart woman such as you must have realized by now that I was not working for Zurich but for another organization entirely. I apologize again for being dishonest. It could not have been helped, under the circumstances.

  I want you to know that I so enjoyed our dinner together. I find you to be both a beautiful and fascinating companion that I am having trouble forgetting. If you or I should ever find ourselves on the same side of the Atlantic again, I would appreciate an opportunity to make good on dinner and to get know you better.

  I hope that the protection I provided you with didn’t get in your way.

  Iechyd da!

  Ted

  Two wonderful thoughts enter my brain, both equally enjoyable: Ted is not gay, and I am not repulsive. “I am both beautiful and fascinating,” I tell Rocky, but of course he already knows. I fetch him a piece of cheese as reinforcement.

  I read it again—what did he mean by “the protection I provided you with”? Then I put it together: the elusive man in the Giants cap. He’d been following both me and Sandy. Ted must have been worried about the two of us getting too close to the Wind Fabricators fraud and had us followed to make sure we didn’t get in his way. So, where was this guy when Mauriello was ready to kill me? Probably sitting in the Hyatt lobby, keeping a lookout for Marshall or Boomer, I guess, while the psychopath archbishop whom he didn’t even know about walked right past him.

  I wander around the house, contemplating the note and what I should do. No immediate ideas come to mind, so I busy myself by doing a load of laundry, taking Rocky for a walk, and going to the grocery store. What am I supposed to do with this letter? Does Ted expect me to go over to the United Kingdom for dinner? I’m not even sure what he does. Is he one of us? One of them? I don’t even know who them is.

  If I hadn’t been so impulsive about giving away the ruby proceeds, I think, I might have been able to justify a quick trip across the pond. At my age, it might be quite a while before I get another dinner invitation.

  Finally, I decide to write him back. Just a note acknowledging I received his letter, which, by the way, is more than he did with the seven or eight texts I sent while waiting for him at the restaurant in San Francisco. Still, I really would like to see him again. Thinking that, I find some stationery and begin writing a letter.

  Midway through, though, I stop and smile.

  “How would you like to spend some time with your buddy Bill?” I ask Rocky.

  I wander over to the kitchen and pick up the phone. I am redeemed but not without appreciation for ethical loopholes.

  “Integrity Helpline,” says the voice on the other end. “Would you like to make a confidential allegation?”

  I am indeed a work in progress.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  JOANNE FOX PHILLIPS is the chief audit executive for a multinational oil and gas company headquartered in Tulsa, Oklahoma. She ventured into the world of fiction primarily to challenge herself and to create a diversion from the world of facts and figures where her professional brain usually resides. Her first novel, Revenge of the Cube Dweller, was published in July 2014, by River Grove Books in Austin, Texas.

  As a CPA, certified internal auditor, and certified fraud examiner, Joanne has expert knowledge of internal controls and how they can be exploited.

  Joanne has two marvelous sons, Clayton and Ted. She currently resides in Tulsa, Oklahoma, with her husband, Phil, and her two rescue dogs, Rocky and Memphis.