Chapter 4
The Whitfield Foundation office is on the third floor of a converted bank building on State Street.
I haven't been there in two years. I haven't needed to be.
Thomas took over the board role after my mother died, and he managed the quarterly meetings, the annual reports, the grant approvals.
He told me everything was running smoothly. I believed him.
I park in the municipal lot around the corner.
I walk past the coffee shop where my mother used to buy her morning latte, the one with the blue awning and the ceramic mugs that chip after three washes.
I push through the heavy brass doors of the building.
The elevator is slow, the type that groans between floors. I get off at three.
"Mrs. Whitfield," she says. "We didn't expect you."
I don't stop walking. "I'm not expected, but I'm here. Is Patricia Hale in her office?"
"She's in a meeting —"
"Tell her Claire Whitfield is here to review the financials. I'll wait in the conference room."
I walk past the desk. I know the layout.
My mother designed it. The conference room is on the left, the executive director's office on the right, the file room in the back.
I open the conference room door. I sit at the head of the table.
The chair is leather, cracked at the seams, the same chair my mother sat in for twenty years.
Danielle appears in the doorway. "Ms. Hale will be right with you."
"Thank you," I say.
Patricia Hale arrives three minutes later. She's sixty-two, silver-haired, wearing a pantsuit the color of sage. She's been the executive director for eight years. She shakes my hand. Her grip is firm, professional, wary.
"Claire," she says. "This is a surprise. Thomas usually handles the board interactions."
"I'm aware of what Thomas usually handles," I say. "I'd like to see the financials for the past fiscal year. I'd like the grant allocations, the consulting contracts, and the board nomination expenses."
Patricia sits down. She doesn't ask why. She opens the file cabinet behind her and pulls three folders. She slides them across the table.
"I've been meaning to call you," she says. "Thomas has been very involved with the new board expansion. He's been pushing the nomination process forward, and he's been more than enthusiastic."
I open the first folder. Grant allocations.
I flip through the pages. The Whitfield Foundation awarded $1.
2 million in grants last year. Most of them go to the usual recipients: the district literacy program, the after-school music initiative, the teacher training fellowship. I recognize the names. I turn the page.
There's a $50,000 grant to the "Cole Outreach Initiative." The address is a P.O. box in the city. The mission statement is vague: "community wellness through pharmaceutical partnerships." I've never heard of it. I've never heard my mother mention it. I've never seen it on a grant application.
I turn to the consulting contracts. There's a $25,000 payment to "Madison Cole, Compliance Consultant.
" The payment was processed in January. The description says "gala preparation and board outreach.
" The invoice is attached. It's a single page, no letterhead, no detailed breakdown. Just a name, an amount, and a date.
I copy the pages. The foundation has a copier in the corner of the conference room, the same machine they've had for a decade, the one that jams if you feed more than five pages at once.
I copy the grant paperwork. I copy the consulting contract.
I copy the invoice. I fold the copies and put them in my purse.
Patricia watches me. She doesn't say anything. She doesn't need to. Her face says what she's too polite to articulate: the numbers don't match, and she's been watching it happen, and she didn't know who to tell.
"I'll be in touch," I say. "Thank you for your time, Patricia."
I leave the office. I walk past the mahogany desk, past Danielle's confused expression, past the elevator that groans between floors. I walk past the coffee shop with the blue awning. I get in my car.
I drive to Nora's house.
She lives in a renovated Victorian on Birch Street, the type of house real estate agents buy because they know the market. I ring the bell. She opens the door holding a glass of red wine and an expression that says she's been preparing for this conversation since she hung up the phone yesterday.
She looks at me without smiling. She steps aside.
"You look like someone who just found out her husband is stealing from her mother's grave," she says.
I walk into the living room. I sit on the couch. I pull the copies from my purse and spread them on the coffee table. Nora sits across from me. She picks up the consulting contract and reads the name. She puts it down.
"He's not stealing from her grave," I say. "He's stealing from her foundation. And he's using it to buy his girlfriend a board seat."
Nora picks up her wine. She takes a drink. She looks at the papers. She looks at me.
"How long have you known?" she asks.
"Two days," I say.
"And you've already got financial records, credit card statements, and a photo of them leaving a hotel."
"I'm a principal," I say. "I document everything."
Nora takes another drink. She sets the glass down. "What are you going to do with it?"
I look at the papers on the coffee table. The $50,000 grant. The $25,000 consulting fee. The nomination list. The ultrasound photo on my phone. The hotel picture. The calendar entries. The credit card charges.
"I'm going to build a case," I say. "Then I'm going to take him apart."
She looks at me for a long moment. Then she lifts her wine glass.
"Finally," she says.