Our Emergency Court Filing Put A Number On Every Missing Orchid

Ellen asked me to read my sworn statement twice.

"Don't sign what you assume," she said. "Sign what you saw, what you did, and which records support it."

We sat in her Dover office while a delivery truck backed up outside. Its warning beep kept cutting through the quiet.

I changed one sentence.

Instead of saying Rusk had stolen June's plant, I wrote that he had collected it without my consent, according to Rosalind's message and the signed receipt.

"That is the difference," Ellen said.

"It doesn't feel different to June."

"I know. But this is how we get her plant home."

She filed our complaint in the Court of Chancery and sought an urgent order protecting my access and stopping further transfers. Rosalind and Rusk both received the papers. The lease, register, missing-plant list, sale notice, and receipt went in as exhibits.

Ellen asked for the six plants' location, too.

Rusk's lawyer replied that afternoon.

His client was a buyer acting in good faith. The plants were in suitable private storage. He would not disclose the address to me.

"He has a lawyer now," I said.

"Then someone can explain the risk to him," Ellen answered.

I spent that night at the conservatory with my assistant, Tess. She checked roots while I changed the service-door camera's password. My lease allowed that camera. Its files had stopped uploading during a router failure the week before.

I had put off fixing it while helping Daniel with funeral meals.

There was no hidden video waiting to rescue me.

We had receipts, witnesses, and the plants themselves, if we could reach them.

Tess brought me the heating bill. I paid the $412 online and saved the confirmation with the others. That was another part of the lease: I paid my own share of utilities. Three years of those payments sat in my account history. Rosalind might call me a guest, but guests did not usually pay to keep a boiler running through a Delaware winter.

"Put the kettle on," I told Tess. "We still have work tomorrow."

Rosalind came to the door at ten.

"Sleeping at work now?"

"Protecting client property."

She held a folded check.

"Five thousand dollars. You take your little plants and go."

"My plants would fill a truck. My clients' plants would fill another. And I have seven years left here."

"I welcomed you into this family."

I looked past her at the house windows.

"I married your son. I paid for my workspace. Those were different things."

She laid the check on a bench.

I photographed it and slid it into an envelope without cashing it.

Two mornings later, we went to court. I wore a plain navy suit and carried a copper tag in my coat pocket. C-041. I had sealed and photographed the other recovered tags with Farid present. Ellen had the evidence copies.

I rubbed the smooth edge while we waited.

Rosalind sat across the room with Daniel beside her. He had driven her because she said she could not face the trip alone.

I understood the ride. I did not understand why he couldn't look at me.

Her lawyer argued that the lease had been a family arrangement whose purpose had ended.

The judge asked, "Where does the agreement say that?"

Pages turned.

No one answered for a few seconds.

Then her lawyer said there were questions about what Rosalind had understood.

Ellen showed the repair schedule, completion sheet, and an old email from Rosalind approving the glass supplier's final invoice.

Pay This From Nadia's Restoration Budget, the subject line read.

Rosalind had understood my money well enough.

Rusk's lawyer said the proposed delivery had been paused voluntarily.

"Then preserving that position should cause no difficulty," the judge said.

The temporary order protected my existing access and barred further removal or sale of disputed plants. It required the six plants to be made available for an identified inspection and preserved the sale records.

The judge did not decide every claim that morning.

"These are steps to prevent further harm," Ellen told me outside. "The evidence still has to do its work."

I posted the required $2,500 security from my business savings. It hurt. I thought of the orders I would have to finish to build that cushion again.

In the hallway, Rosalind caught my sleeve.

"You made this public."

"You announced my job to forty guests. I corrected the record in a filing."

Her fingers loosened.

Daniel stepped toward me, but Ellen's phone rang before he spoke.

Rusk's lawyer had supplied an address in a business park near Camden. Farid and I could inspect the plants that afternoon under a written agreement between the lawyers.

"All six?" I asked.

Ellen listened, then put the phone on speaker.

"There are six pots," the other lawyer said. "My client cannot confirm what is inside the transport sleeves."