by Joan Boswell
“Would it surprise you to learn there are rumours the DNB has uncovered a large embezzlement scheme?” Bob better appreciate my legwork on his story.
“Where on earth did you hear that?” Yvonne’s cheeks pinkened.
“So it’s true?”
“I’d find that very hard to believe.” She stood. “The DNB has the lowest rate of misappropriation of all banks.”
The interview was over. Loyal to the bitter end, I thought. Before I let Yvonne shut the door behind me, she reluctantly agreed to a follow-up interview on Monday.
Climbing into my dusty Caravan, I realized I’d garnered little insight into the career of the legendary Mrs. Bellinger. Sure, she’d done relatively well, but less capable men at the DNB had exceeded her. Perhaps she could have secured a corporate position with a hefty stock option if she’d traded some of that loyalty for advancement at other institutions or in another industry. Had loyalty entombed her in a block of frosted glass, or had the glass ceiling been that confining?
Yvonne Bellinger’s had the best turnout of any retirement party I’d ever attended. Saturday night found me in a crush of bank officials—from all strata and from several institutions—in one of the larger downtown banquet rooms.
The majority of arriving guests were headed to the right, where Yvonne held court in a receiving line. In this sea of sombre serge, she’d dressed to be seen. Resplendent in a tailored skirt suit of lilac silk, an orchid corsage on her right lapel, the guest of honour was a vision of female charm.
As she turned to greet her next guest, Yvonne caught sight of me. She gave me a small, gracious smile, and that tiny nod of her head. I’d been effectively greeted and dismissed. She said, “How lovely of you to come,” giving her full attention to the next person in line. Guess a reporter didn’t warrant a fulsome welcome.
I cast about for a remotely familiar face and followed the stream of dark suits flocking to the bar. If any of my former colleagues had come to honour Yvonne, I’d probably spot them near one of the watering holes.
Drink in hand, I turned to shoulder my way back through the thirsting throng. A square hand clamped down on my forearm, “Sandra! Christ, you haven’t changed one wit, girl.”
“Damn good thing I’m right-handed, Chaz, or you’d be replacing this drink and taking the dress to the cleaners.” I had to look up a good foot to see into the face of my old friend Chaz DeCicco. Same devilish brown eyes, but now his massive crown of wavy hair was shocked with silver. “Gadzooks, Chazman, lose your Grecian Formula?”
Chaz roared. “At least I still have hair. You should see Vandenburg. Besides, the matrons in Rosedale dig the distinguished look. I’m getting all their trust work—it’s great for business.”
“And great for your social life, too, I bet.” I’d heard Chaz’s second marriage hadn’t taken any better than the first.
Chaz slipped his arm around my waist, feeling warm against the thin fabric of my black cocktail dress, and guided me through the crowd. “So, you’ve come off the Mommy Track,” Chaz bent his head to speak into my ear. “But a reporter? Come on!”
I’d known this evening wouldn’t be easy. Bankers are a clannish bunch. Yet it’s a business built on checks and balances. As much as you might like the people you work with part of your job, in a management position, is to watch out for the teller who’s constantly short in her till or the accountant who can’t balance his foreign exchange account. It makes you wary and, after a stint on the audit team, more than a tad paranoid. A familiar prickle swept my shoulders.
We’d stopped in front of a man with the body of a long distance runner, his back against the wall.
“Sandra, you remember Jon Vandenburg, don’t you?” Chaz said, saluting Jon with his glass. Vandenburg tore his gaze from the crowd to shake my hand.
“How could I forget?” I said. No way would I have recognized this guy, even though we’d been colleagues for several years.
“Jon’s head of corporate security these days,” Chaz said. “Big responsibilities, big bucks. Must be what happened to the hair, eh?”
“You forgot the big headaches.” Vandenburg ran a hand over his head, once a mop of blond hair, now a knob of burnished and bronzed skin. “What’s a reporter for the Review doing at a banker’s retirement party?”
“I’m writing a feature article about Yvonne. But I hear there’s a juicier story to report. Care to comment?”
“About what?”
“Embezzlement.”
Vandenburg wiped a trickle of sweat from the side of his face. “The Bank of Montreal in trouble again?”
My follow-up question was quashed by the arrival of a skinny, twenty-something brunette with round, far-set eyes and shiny hair. She greeted Chaz with a big hug. “I hoped you’d be here,” she said, oblivious to the presence of others.
I cocked an eyebrow at Chaz as he extracted himself from her embrace. He introduced her as Jennifer Lewicki. “She’s Yvonne’s loans assistant. Graduated from Western.”
Jennifer’s round head bobbed towards Vandenburg then me, giving her the look of an animated Kewpie Doll. “Mrs. Bellinger is just so great to work for. She does all her own paperwork and computer inputs, you know?” Jennifer wrinkled a freckled nose. “Unlike most of the male managers I’ve had.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Chaz said. “Nobody was more macho than Yvonne. We called her the Iron Lady.”
“Maggie Thatcher was her role model,” I agreed. “She even dressed like her, right down to the helmet hair.”
Jennifer asked Chaz, “Who’s Maggie Thatcher?”
I rolled my eyes. “Have current procedures completely done away with the need for two-party verification within the branch?”
Chaz grunted. “Software programs generate random audits of our accounts now. Cheaper than paying auditors’ salaries.”
“There most certainly are still policies regarding in-house verification,” Vandenburg said, sending a stern glance at a reddening Jennifer Lewicki. “Shareholders can have every faith that their investments are secure with the DNB.”
I persisted. “But is that faith misplaced? Aren’t losses way up due to fraud from both inside and outside the bank?”
“Computerization has been an incredible productivity tool for the industry. You’d be staggered by the volume of business we process now.” Vandenburg sounded more like a public relations wag than a former auditor. “The downside has been some increase in the rate of fraud. But it is by no means a serious problem for us.” He buttoned his suit jacket, nodded toward the room’s entrance and excused himself. “The boss has arrived.”
Following Vandenburg’s departing dome, I saw Cameron Walters, the Division’s hulking General Manager, shaking hands with Yvonne. The full force of her personality was trained on him. Vandenburg interrupted them, and the two men disappeared back into the lobby.
“When’d you first meet Yvonne?” Jennifer asked Chaz.
“Let’s see. We started, what? Twenty years ago?”
I nodded. Jennifer cast an appraising glance my way, presumably to verify for herself I was that ancient.
“She trained us as rookies.”
“She trained you and just about every other snot-nosed kid that came along.” This from a voice so low and gravelled it sounded like a man’s. A squat woman in a navy polyester pantsuit and with hair like steel wool extended a gnarled hand.
“I’m Helen MacLean. I was Head Teller when Yvonne started in 1966. Too sharp for her own good. Every damn bloke they hired learned at Yvonne’s feet.” The sentence was punctuated with a snort. “Then she ended up reporting to them, when she was every bit as good, or better, than the lot of them.”
No one voiced a reply. I recognized the truth in Helen’s remarks, had seen the same scenario repeated everywhere I’d worked. It amazed me the chartered banks made so much money, when they were so foolishly run.
Helen was on a roll. “And now she’s getting the Tin Handshake.” She took a swig of beer. “I saw
the writing on the wall and got out myself. But not Yvonne, she’s a loyal one, she is.”
“What do you mean?” I said. “Isn’t retirement her idea?”
“Still four years away from a full pension! She’s getting the bums’ rush just like all the other old-timers.” Helen groped through her gigantic purse.
“Nobody makes it to full retirement any more,” Chaz interjected. “Too expensive for the pension fund. Cheaper to hire younger staff to replace them.”
“How do they get away with that kind of behaviour?” I asked. Chaz shrugged his linebacker shoulders.
“It’s been her whole life,” Helen huffed. “She gave up having kids to do this. Then had a tough go of it with Richard sick so long and off work. Heart disease. They’d stopped promoting her then, said her husband needed her at home.” Her upper lip curled back, and she stuffed an unlit cigarette between her teeth.
The emcee had announced dinner would start in fifteen minutes, and I needed to find a bathroom. Leaving Chaz to get fresh drinks and find us a table, I headed to the lobby only to discover the line to the ladies’ washroom snaked several metres down the hall. Waiting was never my strong suit. Setting off around a corner, I spied Jon Vandenburg huddled nose-to-nose with Cameron Walters.
There were wild arm gestures and red faces. I could hear the occasional curse word, but when I caught Vandenburg saying “reporter”, I sidled down the wall and hid behind a large pillar to better eavesdrop.
“What the hell am I doing here, then?” Walters seethed. “The last thing I need is to have my picture in next week’s paper with an embezzler.”
Bob was right!
“We only have suspicions at this stage. No proof,” Vandenburg said.
Suspicions of whom?
“When will you have proof?”
“Give me till Monday to follow my leads. I’ve got people working the paper trail.” Vandenburg shot a look down the hall. I held my breath. “Best you leave.”
“You bet your ass.” Walters stalked past me, Vandenburg jogging to match his stride.
I followed them through the lobby and watched as Walters got into a chauffeur-driven Town Car. Vandenburg took off in a dark-coloured Chrysler sedan, tossing the valet a five-dollar bill.
With a little digging, I might break Bob’s story wide open.
I returned just as Yvonne was introduced to a standing ovation. Her smile was dazzling and, in the spotlight, the sheen of her silk jacket glowed.
I sidled up to Chaz and whispered into his ear, “So what have you heard about the embezzlement?”
His head snapped to face me. “I’ve only heard rumours.”
“Who’s under the gun?”
“Haven’t heard any names. Have you?” His handsome face clouded. “If it’s an insider, heads’ll roll. The public’s sick of cover-ups. The bank’ll drop the hammer.”
“Is it you, Chaz?” I asked with a twinkle in my eye.
He faked a hound dog expression and raised both wrists together. “Lock me up!”
The rest of the evening consisted of insipid chicken and wilted broccoli served up with the usual tributes from divisional managers, young enough to be college students. Not much of it was quotable, so I made an early exit.
I drove to the Bellinger home late Sunday afternoon, figuring an unannounced appearance might shake Yvonne up a bit. I needed to make sense of this woman’s career. Had it been a success or not? I had nothing to lose—I didn’t have enough for a decent article at this point anyway—let alone a lead on the fraud case. Now that Yvonne was officially retired, maybe she’d set aside her loyalty to the Bank to tell me how she really felt.
Pulling into the driveway behind a dark green Sebring, I noticed a silver Integra inside the garage. Had she kept her husband’s car, or did Yvonne have company?
When no one appeared after a third ring of the doorbell, I ruled out the company theory. A twist of the knob told me the front door was locked. Emboldened by training that valued answers over privacy, I decided to do a little snooping.
I was disappointed to find the doors of the Sebring locked, but noticed a man’s sports jacket on the back seat. Perhaps Yvonne had a visiting relative? The Integra was unlocked, the only content of note a suit bag filled with stylish women’s sportswear.
Inside the garage, a set of stairs led to a steel door. None of my reporting assignments, to this stage, had involved unlawful entry. I tried the doorknob, adrenaline coursing through my body when it turned in my hand. Holding my breath, I opened the door and walked into a laundry room, the rhythmic whoosh of a dryer covering my steps. Someone must be home.
“Hello? Yvonne? Hello?” I didn’t shout, but it wasn’t a whisper either.
Moving into the kitchen, I listened for voices but only heard water running from somewhere upstairs. A navy leather handbag sat on the counter directly ahead of me. I rifled through it and found Yvonne’s passport, her photo starched and perfect, and an Air Canada folder containing a ticket to Buenos Aires for a flight departing this evening.
Did Argentina have a Vallien collection? Why had Yvonne moved up the date of her departure? Had she lied to me when she promised to meet me on Monday?
I scanned the rest of the space and spied a carry-on bag on the floor. A collection of envelopes peeked out from the tote’s side pocket, beckoning my examination. I slipped them out and walked into the dining room, where I’d be in a better position to listen for any changes to the activity upstairs.
A new face, last night’s retirement gift, had assumed the place of honour on the centre post. This one was milky, virtually featureless and fixed in an iron vice. I couldn’t see the beauty in such a bizarre creation. It struck me as a particularly cruel present if Yvonne Bellinger was being squeezed out of the career for which she’d subjugated the rest of her life. Walking closer, I peered at it, its semi-transparent surface refusing to divulge a clear view of some inner image.
Enough art criticism. If I was going to break laws in the service of my craft, I’d better not waste time. I shuffled through the business-sized envelopes in my hand, noting the logos of Credit Suisse, Deutsche Bank, Citibank, with return addresses in the Cayman Islands. Why would she have correspondence from foreign banks? I opened the envelope from the Swiss bank to find account statements in Yvonne’s name with a balance of over two million dollars, American.
The sound of running water stopped. I hadn’t thought this far ahead. Should I call out? Get out? Turning to check for movement on the second floor, I scanned the contents of a second envelope. I heard an upstairs door open. Startled, I raced into the sitting room, hoping to escape out the front door before anyone came downstairs. I didn’t make it.
Face down between the armchairs lay the body of Jon Vandenberg, a massive depression in the back of his bare skull. Blood seeped down his neck and pooled under his head. A large octagonal vase of clear glass, reflecting shades of deep claret, lay at his feet.
Blind with horror, I stumbled backwards, hitting the frame of the archway. Fighting a wave of nausea, I willed my body to run, but only a deep moan escaped.
“Sandra?”
I swung around to see Yvonne Bellinger gripping the upper balcony’s railing with bloodless knuckles. Naked of makeup, her browless face had a vacant look. Confusion flitted across it, followed by a rapid tightening of muscles that etched heavy lines in the corners of her mouth.
“What on earth...?” Yvonne seemed to struggle for words. She gathered a terry bath robe around her waist. A hand fluttered up to smooth the usual impeccable coif of tamed waves, now a cluster of damp spikes.
The steeliness returned to her tone. “What is going on here?”
My heart wrestled my brain for control of my face. I squeezed a smile through trembling lips. “I was worried about you when no one answered the door bell. And then I saw a man’s coat in the car outside, so I...”
“You what?” Yvonne stalked to the head of the stairs, stiff and menacing. “Decided to break and enter? To int
erfere where you’re not welcome? You never could accept ‘No’ for an answer.”
Her blue eyes, cloaked behind heavy hoods and dark circles, bore lasers through me. A chill raced down my spine.
“Yvonne, it’s not that bad. Let’s call 911,” I sidled towards the table, its bevelled edge pressing into my thighs. “Get him help, and it’ll be okay.”
She descended four steps. Her hand rested just above the top shelf on the partial wall along the staircase. Yvonne’s lip curled like a Doberman confronting an intruder.
“Did Vandenberg tell you his suspicions?”
“About what?”
“Don’t toy with me, you uppity little bitch,” Yvonne hissed. “Do you have notes in your office, in your car?”
I was gripped by fear, and all those poker lessons abandoned me. Squeezing my eyes shut, I grappled for a response that would save my hide. They snapped open when a heavy object struck my forehead. I grabbed the table to steady myself, head swimming. A decanter lay on the floor. Something wet streamed into my eyes, and I reached up to wipe it away, shaken to see blood.
Yvonne snatched a glass nude from another shelf and hurled it. It bounced off my forearm. My feet welded to the carpet, I could only watch, stunned, as Yvonne raced down the staircase, grabbing the crucifix on her descent. She paused on the lower landing long enough for me to see her mask of fury.
“I won’t go to jail.” With that, she charged me.
A banshee screech filled the air as the weight of her body on mine tipped the tabletop. It cracked beneath us and we crashed to the floor in a splintering shower.
Bursts of white light thundered through my brain. I struggled for breath. Shards of glass surrounded us. I was petrified to move, for fear I’d be pierced by one.
A gasp shuddered through Yvonne and she rolled off me, groaning, the broken cross just beyond her reach. Deep-red rivulets streaked her hands and robe. Dazed, I turned my head to the left. A pair of metallic, wire-caged eyes stared back at me. Screaming, I pushed a cold blue bust away and struggled to sit up.
