“What do you mean by that?” Bishop asked.
“I really shouldn’t say. I’m sure the woman was in shock. She apparently is considerably older than Al and not in good health. Her exact words were, ‘Maybe now we’ll get the money we need to save the bakery.’ Can you imagine that?”
“No love lost there, I guess,” Bishop responded. “I wonder what she meant by that.”
“I certainly was not going to ask her that, Mike, but she went on and on about his money for a while. It was as if the news was a match that ignited a fuse. Her tone became increasing hateful as she told her story.”
“What story?”
“Well, I couldn’t follow everything that she was saying because when she got going she would occasionally lapse into Italian, but the gist of it is that her family has run a bakery in Hartford for many years. The Santorinis were very successful for many years. When they made a decision to expand, they took on a lot of debt. Shortly thereafter, her husband died, people’s eating habits turned away from rich Italian pastries, and she and her son, Rocco, were about to lose the business.”
“How does Al fit into that?”
“Maria, that’s Al’s sister, told me that she had repeatedly contacted her brother for assistance but that he refused to help and didn’t seem to care what happened to them or the business.”
“What would make her think that Al could help if he wanted to?” Bishop wondered. “Most of us at Trinity aren’t making the big bucks,” he grinned. Sister Patricia simply snorted her disapproval at the mere mention of the school’s non-competitive salary scale.
“I’m well aware of that, Michael. As you know, our rewards are not all monetary. However, you seem to be forgetting that Al worked for many years in the public school system.”
“Yes, that’s true, and he lived alone in a modest house. His only extravagance seems to have been his love of big cars and a penchant for gambling. He couldn’t have had the resources to save a failing business.”
“True and not true,” said Sister Ann.
“What do you mean?”
Sister was about to answer but was stopped as several teachers came over to greet her. Among them was Stephanie Harris, the rookie French teacher. She was dressed conservatively with a calf-length black coat, black pumps, and a dark leather handbag with one strap slung over her shoulder. Her dark brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail that swayed as she walked.
“I wondered if we might sit together at the mass,” she asked.
“That would be fine with me,” replied Bishop with a warm smile. Stephanie was the only new teacher on the staff at Trinity this year, and he had taken on the role of a mentor with her as he had done for a number of the new teachers who had passed through the halls of Trinity over the years.
“I’m so sorry that you were the one to find him. That must have been awful.” She took out a tissue to dab at her nose and eyes. Her obvious sadness could not mar her equally obvious beauty. Previously, Bishop had seen her dressed in the practical clothing required of teaching and in jeans and a pullover at games. However, dressed for this more formal occasion, she drew the attention of others without trying.
Bishop knew that she had worked as a paralegal for several years after college before deciding to go back to school for her teacher’s certificate. According to Sarah Humphries, one of the gossipy guidance counselors, at least a dozen students had come in during the first week of school to request a transfer out of Spanish and into French. She had made an instant impression on Bishop as well. She was bright, energetic, and funny. She had common sense and a good way with the kids. She had the makings of a good teacher. Over the years, he had seen many young teachers crash and burn. Steph would do well.
They didn’t share the same prep period, but their homerooms were across the hall from each other. Occasionally, she would come in at the end of the day to ask a quick question, and as a veteran teacher, he was always more than happy to explain the protocol or offer some friendly advice.
Bishop downplayed the emotional impact that finding the body had had on him. The days following his unhappy discovery had been mostly a blur. He thought changing the topic might be helpful for both of them.
“By the way, Steph, we missed you at the game last week.” A number of the teachers sat together in the stands, hoping to discourage disgruntled parents from approaching one of them with a complaint about grades.
“I know. I couldn’t shake a headache and decided to go to bed early.” That sounded like a polite brush-off to him. Grace would have reminded him that it was wrong of him to try to pump that young girl for personal information that was none of his business whatsoever. How he missed Grace!
His work as an English teacher consumed most of his time. After his wife passed away, his job was his escape. His workload never diminished from the beginning of September to the end of June. Even in the summer, he spent hours planning new material. His social life other than meeting up with faculty at games was mostly non-existent. He had always been more of a loner and a thinker. He was well aware that in a small town such as Groveland rumors spread quickly, and he sometimes worried that people like Sarah Humphries would try to trump up something that wasn’t there.
They walked into the church without exchanging another word. As the Beatles had put it, “Let it be,” thought Bishop.
***
The funeral mass was designed to be a celebration of Coach Zappala’s life, but it depressed Bishop nonetheless. The only member of his family who showed up was Maria’s son, Rocco. He was an imposing figure who could have passed as a bouncer at a bar. He was mostly bald, and what hair he did have was closely cropped. Although his face was clean-shaven, the dark stubble gave the opposite impression. The sport coat he was wearing didn’t fit very well, as if he had gained some weight since the last time he had worn it. When Bishop was introduced as the man who found his uncle, Rocco showed no particular interest. Sarah, the gossip queen, later told everyone that she had overheard Rocco asking Mr. Langone about the funeral expenses. According to her, Rocco seemed relieved to hear that Al’s lawyer was taking care of everything. He was very anxious to meet with the lawyer right after the funeral before he headed back to Connecticut.
The church was crowded with mourners, almost all of them connected to Holy Trinity in one way or another. Most of the faculty was there as well as a good number of students. The Delaneys were among the parents who attended. Members of the football team, all wearing their football jerseys over their dress shirts, sat together as a sign of unity. When it was time for Sister Ann to say a few words, Sister Pat’s eyes darted around the pews, looking for anyone who might not be paying rapt attention. She was especially focused on the football team, knowing that they were probably more interested in the new plays that Coach Chandler had put in for Saturday’s game than they were in what the principal had to say.
Bishop wasn’t very impressed by her remarks that were filled with generalities about the mystery of death and the need to believe in God’s plan. Her voice had about the same amount of emotion in it that she used to deliver morning announcements. The only comment that got much of a response was at the end. “I’m sure that Coach Zappala would have not wanted us to unduly grieve for him. Life must go on. Therefore, our football team will be on the field tomorrow, and we will win that game for him.” Sister Pat started to clap, and then stopped herself when she realized that no one else was so inclined.
After saying a few quick goodbyes, Bishop slipped out of the church and headed for the comfort of his country home. The sun was shining, but it didn’t do much to warm his spirits. He was looking forward to a chance to decompress, maybe even grade a few papers, but when he checked his cell phone for messages, those thoughts faded. He had a message from attorney Andy White’s secretary asking him to be at White’s office at 4:00 p.m. that afternoon for a reading of Zappala’s will. Why on earth would he have to be there for that? He wanted to call and say that he had another appointment and wouldn’
t be able to attend, but that wasn’t true. He would just have to go. He wondered who else had been invited.
Chapter 4
The office of H. Andrew White was located in his Victorian home on Spruce Street. With its wraparound veranda and meticulously manicured yard, it was the type of home that Bishop and his wife, Grace, had dreamed of one day owning. When she died, she took those dreams with her. When he arrived a few minutes early, he met Rocco Santorini for the second time. If Rocco had appeared uninterested at their first meeting, he more than made up for it now.
“What are you doin’ here, mista?” The shirt, tie, and ill-fitting sport coat had been replaced with a sweatshirt, jeans, and boat shoes. He hadn’t bothered to shave.
“I received a message from Mr. White’s secretary asking me to meet him here.” Bishop felt as if he was about to have a parent-teacher conference with a very irate parent. But this time, instead of being fully prepared, he had no idea of what to expect.
“Well, there’s goin’ to be a readin’ of the will and I don’t see’s that has anything to do with you,” scowled Rocco. Bishop had visions of Rocco the Baker twirling him in the air like a pizza dough and then slamming him onto the floor.
“I guess we’ll soon find out,” countered Bishop as Andy White came out to greet them both. He was in his mid-forties, with wavy brown hair, and a deep tan. His suit was perfectly tailored. He gave each man a firm handshake.
No one in town really knew much about Zappala’s finances. His house was unpretentious although his Lincoln Town Car was certainly the only one to be found in the faculty parking lot. None of the teachers at Trinity made a lot of money; that wasn’t what they wanted from the teaching profession. Zappala did take off on weekend flings or binges, but that didn’t mean he had money. Bishop considered the fact that Zappala had taught for many years at Madison and had probably accumulated a nice pension from the state. Still, that wouldn’t provide the kind of money that would save the family business, so why had they asked him for help as Sister Ann had mentioned? And why had he been asked to be present at the reading of the will?
Both men were led into White’s small office. Someone was already seated at the large mahogany desk facing the oversized window that overlooked Spruce Street. As the three men entered, she turned to meet them. Bishop was surprised.
“Sister Ann! What are you doing here?”
Sister maintained her perfect posture in one of three high-backed executive chairs that had been positioned across from White’s desk. Her hands were folded as if in prayer, with the plain silver band on the fourth finger of her left hand symbolizing her marriage to God still visible. She had placed a small black handbag next to her chair.
“I guess I’m here for the same reason that you are. I received a call from Mr. White asking if I could attend a reading of the will this afternoon.” There was a distinct chill in her voice. She was already in a defensive mode. With Sister Ann occupying one of the end seats, Bishop sat in the other end chair, leaving Rocco no choice but to take the middle seat.
Rocco was none too pleased with this development. “What’s goin’ on here, White? Why are these people here? If this is about the will, I’m the only one that’s family. They don’t belong here.”
“I’m afraid they do, Mr. Santorini,” explained White. “I helped your uncle prepare his will and I am familiar with its contents. Sister Ann and Mr. Bishop have a legitimate reason to be here as you will see.”
“Legitimate my ass,” barked Rocco. “I’ll get a lawyer of my own.”
“How you choose to respond is your own business. However, I must warn you that my job is to inform all of you of the contents of this will. Your uncle was very explicit in his instructions. You are here as your mother’s representative to listen and nothing more,” cautioned White.
When White had finished the reading of the will, Bishop, Sister Ann, and Santorini were speechless. The value of Coach Zappala’s estate was far beyond what they could have imagined.
It took several minutes for the facts to register. Zappala had left one million dollars to Holy Trinity High School to be used specifically for the benefit of the students. “Oh my God,” whispered Sister Ann. “What a wonderful man!” Bishop seemed to recall that just over a week ago, the coach was nothing more than an “s.o.b.” who had a winning record. Whoever said that money talks knew what they were talking about. With the economy in a downturn and enrollment slipping, thoughts of the myriad ways that she could use that money must have danced in her head. “Are you sure, Andy?”
“Mr. Zappala was very clear about his wish that the money be distributed in this way. And as you recall, he wanted whatever monies remained after all of his possessions were liquidated and all of his debts paid to be donated to a charity chosen by the executor. My guess is that will come to another four million.”
Rocco jumped to his feet. “I’m getting’ a lawyer! This is total bullshit! Wait until my mother hears about this!”
“Please be seated, Mr. Santorini,” White replied calmly. “Of course, you may do as you like, but I’m afraid that hiring a lawyer would prove a waste of your money. You see, if Mr. Zappala had completely cut his family out of his will, there might be some basis to contest it. However, as I just explained, he was very specific in his desire to leave your mother exactly fifty thousand dollars and not a penny more. It would be almost impossible to argue that she should receive more than that simply because he had more than that.”
“But that isn’t enough to save the bakery and he knew it,” exploded Rocco.
“I’m sorry. That may be true, but it does not constitute a valid challenge to this will.”
Rocco turned to Sister Ann. His face was flushed, and his eyes were dark and menacing. “Why did he give you a million bucks? Al didn’t even go to church! What did you do to get him to give you that money? You don’t look like his type, you know what I’m sayin’?”
“How dare you!” Now it was Sister Ann’s face that flushed. “I’m sorry that your uncle is dead. I’m sorry that your family may lose their business, but I am not sorry that he gave that money to Holy Trinity. Your uncle loved sports and he knew how expensive these programs are to run. He didn’t give the money to me. He gave it to the school for the benefit of future students and athletes.” Her eyes that had been focused on Rocco like a laser beam now turned back to White.
“Is there reason for me to stay here any longer?” She must have wanted to return to the convent to tell Sister Pat the good news. They would probably celebrate the school’s good fortune by dining at Barrington’s, one of the finest restaurants in town.
“No, Sister. None at all. You will be contacted after the will has gone through probate. Thanks for coming.”
She stood to leave and both White and Bishop stood and shook hands with her. Santorini remained seated. White walked her to the door and quietly offered an apology for the unpleasant scene that had just taken place.
When he returned to his desk, Rocco began to fire again. “What’s this guy still doin’ here? He isn’t gettin’ any dough, is he?”
“No, if you recall my reading of the will, Mr. Bishop is not named as a recipient of any money. However, he has been named as the executor of the will.”
***
When Bishop first heard White reading the will, he was so stunned by the numbers and by the exchange between Rocco and Sister Ann that he had almost forgotten that he had been mentioned in the will. Executor? Why would he be named executor? What would he be required to do? How much time would it require? He was behind in his work as it was. He had missed a day of school last week and more essays were piling up waiting to be graded.
“Excuse me, Andy. Is there any way that I can decline to be the executor?”
“If you were physically or mentally unable to perform the task, yes. Otherwise, not really. The job of executor is a thankless one, but someone has to do it and obviously, Mr. Zappala felt you were the man for the job.” Rocco sat silently, still seething
over the millions that had been given to strangers instead of family.
“Me? I hardly knew him. I mean we were colleagues and neighbors, but I didn’t pal around with him or anything.” Bishop was embarrassed. He realized that he sounded like a student trying to talk his way out of a detention.
“I have to admit that I asked him the same question about naming you as executor.”
“And? What did he say?”
“I remember him saying, ‘Bishop is the one I want. He’s sharp for an old guy. Good with details.’”
He ignored the comment about his age. He was seventy and that was older than any other lay teacher in the school’s history. “Lots of people are good with details. Andy, teaching takes up almost all of my time.” Bishop thought of the mountains of paper work that might be involved. He would have to liquidate all of Zappala’s assets, sort through his belongings, sell his house, his car, everything.
Rocco interrupted. “Listen, if you don’t wanna do it, I will. After all, he was my uncle. You’re nothin’ to him.”
White immediately ended that suggestion. “I’m afraid that’s impossible, Mr. Santorini. Mr. Bishop is the only person with any legal authority in this matter, and he has no legitimate reason to recuse himself.”
Rocco most likely didn’t know what “recuse” meant, but he got the picture. “This stinks big time.” With that, he got up to leave. “When do we get our fifty K?”
“As I explained to Sister, the will must go through probate. All the assets must be liquidated. This process could take up to six months or more. Mr. Bishop will keep you posted as far as the distribution is concerned.”
“Thanks for nothin’, White,” said Rocco as he stormed out of the room and slammed the door behind him. Bishop reflected on the words, “six months or more.” It sounded like a prison sentence.
White and Bishop spent some time prioritizing a list of things to do. Bishop had thought that finding the body had been the most difficult part of this experience. Now that the funeral was over, he hoped that his life would to get back to normal. Apparently, Coach Zappala had had other ideas. Bishop thought of the character in Herman Melville’s “Bartelby, the Scrivener” who when given a task simply replied, “I prefer not to.” Unfortunately, Bishop didn’t have that option.
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