Six Empty Circles Turned Our Plant Register Into Evidence

Farid set six clean pots on the empty spaces.

"Don't fill these," he said. "We need to show what was here."

I took a wide photograph, then a close one of each circle. My hands shook so badly I had to rest my phone against a watering can.

June called while I was labeling the pictures.

"How did my girl do at the exhibition?"

She called her orchid that. She had raised it with her late sister.

I sat on the office stool.

"June, someone removed it without my permission. I'm working with a lawyer to get it back."

For a moment, I heard only her kitchen clock.

"You promised it would be safe."

"I did. I'm sorry. I'll keep you informed, even if the news is difficult."

I did not tell her the lease made it someone else's fault. She had trusted me, and her bench space was empty.

After we hung up, I opened my business account. There was $14,830 in it. Payroll for my part-time assistant, heat, and supplies would take most of that over the next month.

Ellen's first retainer had been $3,000.

Paperwork cost money before it saved anything.

I canceled two supply orders and called Tess, my assistant, before she heard a rumor from a customer. I told her her hours were safe for the week. Then I put that promise on my own calendar, where I would have to face it each morning. Losing a workspace would hurt me. Letting other people pay for my silence would hurt worse.

Farid pulled a chair beside mine.

"We start with what you can prove."

My accession receipts lived in numbered sleeves. Each showed the date, owner, plant name, care agreement, and photographs taken at intake. Clients kept signed copies. I scanned mine before filing them.

June's number was C-041. The C meant client.

Her plant was a pale yellow cattleya she called Shore Lantern. Its right leaf held the crescent scar. A narrow brown seam ran along the other leaf where a childhood cat had bitten it, according to June.

"Two marks," Farid said. "Two separate leaves."

The other missing client plants belonged to Leon Price, a nurse, and Miriam Cole, who grew orchids on her enclosed porch in Smyrna. Leon owned two. Miriam owned one.

The last two missing plants belonged to my business. Their receipts showed purchase prices of $780 and $920. They were breeding stock, not decorations.

We called all three clients. I sent each a written account of the loss and asked them to confirm their receipts. By midnight, all three had replied.

At one, we finished the count.

Two hundred ten plants remained. No mystery, no estimate. We matched every pot to its file.

Farid found twelve copper tags inside a drawer beneath the display table. Six belonged to the missing plants. Six matched orchids still on the benches.

Cream cards had replaced them.

Estate Collection, the cards said.

I photographed the drawer before touching anything.

"She had the ownership report," Farid said.

I looked up.

"The one you did for her insurance?"

"Ten days ago. Your register, my inspection, current values. Every client plant was marked as held for care."

"She said her policy needed updating after Adrian died."

"That's what she told me too."

His voice had gone flat.

He opened his sent email and forwarded Ellen the report. The thirty-one Vale plants had a combined appraised value of $18,400. All two hundred sixteen, including client and business property, totaled $180,000.

That explained the sales sheet.

Rosalind had used the biggest number and dropped the column beside it.

Daniel arrived with breakfast at seven. He looked at the six empty pots.

"I'll replace them," he said.

"You can't replace June's sister's plant."

He put the bag down.

"I know. I shouldn't have said that."

He handed me his phone. His mother had sent him a picture of Rusk's collection receipt, asking him to make me understand.

Six Specimens, Free of Third-Party Claims.

Below that was Rosalind's signature and a $25,000 advance payment.

"Send it to Ellen," I said.

"Will this hurt Mom?"

I waited.

He looked at the bare circles again.

"I'll send it."

At nine, June emailed a screen image. A friend from her orchid club had seen a private sale notice passed around by collectors.

Shore Lantern appeared against a black cloth. Its scarred leaf faced the camera. The price was $12,000, with a deposit already accepted.

I enlarged the picture.

On the glass behind the cloth, faint but clear, hung my thermometer.

The photograph had been taken in my conservatory.

The post carried a date from three nights before the memorial.

Then a second email arrived from June's friend: The seller just offered delivery tomorrow morning.