The Blue Book Turned Canceled Orders Into Missing Money

I did not open the sleeve.

Owen put it flat on my packing table, away from the damp clay. Under the bright work light, the blue cover looked almost black.

"Did she know you found it?" I asked.

"She will."

He sounded tired. He did not ask me to make that better.

Elena arrived twenty minutes later. She logged the book, photographed it, and took it with her. Owen wrote down where he had found it and who had been in the room.

For once, we had nothing to discuss over dinner. The facts had their own appointment.

Over the next three weeks, Elena traced the entries. She asked customers for copies of invoices and proof of payment through the agreed review process. She checked dates against Owen's firing logs and the showroom's delivery records.

One customer had paid $4,800 for serving dishes listed as a canceled order. Another still owed $3,600 on an invoice missing from the main binder.

The blue book was not just a backup.

It tracked sales the regular accounts hid.

The canceled orders included pieces I had made. I recognized a hotel breakfast set by its wide cup handles. I had widened those handles after a server burned her knuckles on an older design. Lorraine had sold the set, collected the money, and marked my completed delivery as a canceled sale.

Elena presented her findings at Mara's office. Lorraine and Dennis joined by video. Owen sat at the far end of the table with his hands folded.

"I found $28,600 in orders omitted from the main sales records," Elena said. "Of that, $11,400 remains unpaid. The other $17,200 was collected and sent to a personal account controlled by Lorraine."

"An owner's draw," Lorraine said.

"It was not shown as an owner's draw. Your regular ledger identifies these receipts as canceled sales. The blue book labels the transfer a gift from Bianca."

"That was a private note."

"The money came from customers."

I stared at the printout.

Lorraine had not merely called my loan a gift. She had used my name to label other money leaving the company.

"Where did it go?" I asked.

Dennis said, "We are reviewing that."

Elena turned a page.

"The bank records produced for this review show a transfer toward a condominium purchase."

Owen unfolded his hands.

"The place in Cañon City?"

I remembered the brochure on her desk. She had used it to prop up a wobbling pottery display, a photograph of pale cabinets folded under one leg. At the time, I had admired how level she had made it.

Lorraine looked away from the camera.

She had told him she was only considering it. She had told the showroom clerk that business was too slow to replace a broken desk chair.

I thought of all the small shortages she had laid at my feet. Too much glaze. Too much packing paper. Too much money charged for work done by a daughter-in-law.

Elena kept going.

"Total collectible receivables are $27,000. That includes the $11,400 found in the second records. The remaining $15,600 appears in both the customer records and the main books."

Mara circled the total.

There was something almost kind about a circle that meant only one thing.

Lorraine leaned toward her camera.

"Bianca wouldn't have those customers without my showroom."

"Several were mine before I married Owen," I said. "Their purchase orders have dates."

"Always with a piece of paper."

I looked at the loan beside my elbow.

"Yes."

After the meeting, Elena sent her draft report to both lawyers for comments and supporting corrections. Mara warned me that a draft was not a judgment. Lorraine could dispute it. We would answer with records.

I returned to the studio and trimmed bowls until the foot rings were even.

At closing, the showroom clerk, Tess, called.

"Mrs. Vitale told us your loan froze payroll. Is that true?"

"I haven't frozen any account. Ask for your pay information in writing."

"She says you want the building."

"The loan doesn't cover the building. She leases it."

There was a long breath on the line.

"Thank you for saying something I can check."

I wanted to tell Tess every ugly detail. Instead, I gave her Mara's office number for questions about the court order. Her wages were her life. They were not a place to unload mine.

That evening, Owen brought an overnight bag to my studio apartment.

"I told her I won't work off the books," he said.

"Were you?"

"I thought I was just fixing kilns."

"You were fixing hers while she missed payments to me."

He sat down on the bottom stair.

"I know."

Before either of us said more, Mara called. Dennis had finally produced the supposed release.

It claimed I had canceled the entire loan six months earlier. A copy of my signature sat at the bottom.

Below it, on the witness line, was Owen's real name.